Twelve Days
by MissBates
Summary: A hiatus fic. Can House and Cuddy's relationship survive Nolan's meddling, Wilson's muddling and Lucas's intrigues? Takes place in the days after the Season 6 finale. Rated M for one mildly explicit scene. Day 12 up and thus completed.
1. Days One to Four

**Author's Note: **

I'm indulging my passion for abstruse puzzles once again: Twelve Days follows the plot pattern of Ye Olde Barde's _Twelfth Night_. That means I've projected the characters and basic plot elements onto my story. Each scene that I write has to contain the characters corresponding to the ones in the play and the associated plot elements. I took the liberty of eliminating a few minor characters and inserting one OC, but that's about it. In addition, I imposed on myself the restriction that the plot has to take place within a time span of twelve days, with at least one scene per day. (No, you students of English Literature, don't bother telling me that the play was named thus because it was performed on the Twelfth Day of Christmas and not because the action takes place in twelve nights – I know!) I've inserted one quote per Shakespearean scene, so you can see where we are in the play by following the quotes. If you can't figure out who's who, ask me and I'll send you a cast list. (Little hint: House's character is female in the play.)

**For those of you who don't know or care about the play: it shouldn't really matter. However, it does mean that House only turns up in person on Day 5, because in the play his character doesn't turn up till Act 1, Scene 5.**

My original concept from before the season finale wasn't Huddy and assumed that House would have a relapse in time for the hiatus. That didn't happen, and since I'm a strict adherent to canon, I was in a bit of a bother. I can't say I'm particularly happy with the Huddy element in this fic – although it's my favoured pairing and I like playing with the possibility of it happening, I really don't like writing Huddy consummated. It hampers my imaginative process. I hoped that the plot problems this created would solve themselves during the writing process, but they didn't really. So while concrit is welcome as usual, don't even bother telling me that House acts oc towards the end of this fic. I know!

**The action takes place parallel to the end of Season 6.** The basic assumption is that the Trenton crane disaster takes place on the evening of Day 2, the scene in House's bathroom in the early morning of Day 3.

**A big thanks to my indefatigable beta Brighid45, who finds the time in between her own fic to correct my stuff and write me words of encouragement. Check out her Treatment series!**

**Enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

_Duke Orsino:  
How now! what news from her?  
Valentine:  
So please my lord, I might not be admitted;  
But from her handmaid do return this answer:  
The element itself, till seven years' heat,  
Shall not behold her face at ample view;_**  
**_[Twelfth Night, Act 1 Scene 1]_

**May 16, 2010: Day 1  
**(The day before the crane disaster in Trenton)

_Four pm_

The sight and smell assails one's senses the moment one comes outside into the open - lilacs, white and purple, the blossoms vivid against the darker green of the leaves. They are late this year, delayed by the long, harsh winter, but it is as if the longer period of latency has encouraged the plants to give their all. The sweetness is all-pervading, shouting 'spring' louder than the chorus of bird calls that augments the impressions to a cacophony of the senses.

Nolan isn't much of an outdoor person; he's always felt more at home indoors with his nose in a book than exposed to the raw elements, but even he can't deny the pull that these first warm days of spring exert on everyone in the institution. As he rounds the corner that hides the recreational area for inmates from the severe front façade of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, the sounds of a riotous basketball game are added to the more natural background noises of the vast parkland surrounding the institute. The more mobile inmates of Ward 6 are engaged in a match that seems to follow few defined rules, but is carried out with astonishingly little acrimony under the watchful eye of Dr Beasley. Nolan watches for a moment, letting the scent of the lilacs carry him back in memory to a similar scene. Is it already one year ago that he stood almost in the same spot watching one patient reduce an afternoon basketball session to a hopeless shambles within minutes of joining in the game? How much has changed since then, at least for Greg House!

He unlocks the door in the fence around the enclosed area, locks it carefully behind him and strolls over to the bench to choose a seat beside Dr Beasley. They sit in companionable silence, enjoying the afternoon sun and the relative peace of afternoon recreation time.

Finally Dr Beasley, eyes on her patients, breaks the silence. "Don't you normally see Greg at this time?"

Funny that they should both be thinking of him. Then again, it isn't really odd that he should be thinking of Greg, because she is right - it _is _the slot that is normally reserved for House's therapy session.

"I do, but he didn't show up today."

"Oh. Is he alright?" Her voice carries polite concern for a patient who has missed an appointment due to sickness or other untoward circumstances.

"I have no idea."

Dr Beasley turns to look at him. "Isn't he normally reliable in keeping his appointments?" She knows about Greg's progress in general terms because they discuss current cases in their weekly team meetings, so she is aware that he has been punctual and cooperative so far.

Nolan's discomfort is like a tangible mass between them, but he knows that what he now has to tell her will come out sooner or later anyway, so he might as well get the unpleasant task behind him. "He left the last session after stating that he was done with therapy. It seems that he meant it."

Nolan can't help grimacing. The incident (a euphemism for what is a therapeutic catastrophe of the first order) is too fresh not to sting mightily. It his personal Waterloo, a _faux pas _of the same order as the one Greg committed when he let Freedom Fighter jump off the parking deck. Dr Beasley shows admirable reticence; she refrains from prying verbally, but she can't help sending a questioning glance his way. He doesn't blame her; in her position he'd have done more than just look.

He elaborates. "The session didn't go well. I got trapped into playing the little games **he** usually plays with **me**," here he exchanges a rueful smile with Dr Beasley, who knows those games only too well, "and omitted to read the subtext to what he was telling me. He was upset, rightly so, and walked out on me. He phoned administration earlier this week to cancel all future appointments."

Dr Beasley ponders this before she returns her attention to Nolan. "You're worried about him," she surmises.

"Yes. His supportive network, if one can call it such, is crumbling, his pain level is on the increase, and he himself has admitted to drinking too much. 'Go, figure,' as Greg would say."

Dr Beasley sighs. "There's nothing you can do if he refuses treatment."

"There is, unfortunately, something that I **do **have to do if he doesn't take it up again, and that is inform his superior that he has ceased to participate in ongoing therapy. It was part and parcel of the conditions imposed by the board of his hospital when they agreed to take him back into their employment. They would only reinstate him if he agreed to a partial suspension of patient confidentiality: I am obliged to report anything that threatens his mental status. They were primarily concerned about relapses, but they also included a refusal to continue with out-patient therapy as grounds for a dismissal."

Dr Beasley's eyes widen. He doesn't have to explain to her what Greg's job means to him, nor does he need to protest how much he hates having to report to the powers that reign at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Patient confidentiality was implemented to prevent this kind of a scenario, but the restrictions imposed by Greg's speciality are such that Nolan allowed himself to be coerced into agreeing to treatment conditions that his concern for his patient's well-being would normally have made him refuse unequivocally. Greg, however, was adamant about returning to diagnostics, a discipline that doesn't seem to exist outside the microcosm of PPTH, while the dean did her best (and probably a bit more) to persuade the board to take him back, hence agreeing to those demeaning conditions seemed the the best option at the time. Now Nolan wonders whether he shouldn't have bargained harder.

Knowing what he does about the dean of PPTH after a year of treating Greg, it seems unlikely that the conditions were her idea. Furthermore, she sounds like the type of person who is in high mettle when confronted with Herculean labours; had she been convinced that the only way to get Greg House back on her staff was to persuade her board of governors to waive those conditions, she would probably have risen to the challenge.

"He'll lose his job," Dr Beasley summarizes unnecessarily.

"If I report him," Nolan affirms.

The choice of 'if' instead of 'when' is not lost on Dr Beasley. "You don't intend to do so?"

"Not yet. I think I can afford to give him some time to change his mind."

"How long?" After a moment she adds, "He won't change his mind. We both know that."

"I could also inform the board that he has progressed to such an extent that continuing his treatment is not strictly necessary."

That draws a gasp from Dr Beasley. "You can't be serious!"

"He has progressed enormously. Perhaps he can manage by himself now. Who are we to say he can't?" Nolan reasons, playing the devil's advocate.

"You just told me that he's in a fragile situation. How can you now say that he'll be fine?"

Although Dr Beasley knows Nolan well enough to be aware that he can't be serious about this, she feels obliged to contradict him. It's almost a game - he bounces ideas off her by making outrageous statements, she forces him to rethink his approach by pointing out the flaws in his logic - but their trigger is too serious a matter to warrant frivolity in dealing with it.

"I think it's an approach worth considering. Greg has not ceased to amaze me this past year with the amount of energy and dedication he has put not only into staying clean, but also into changing his attitude to some basic issues in his life. He's not a person who does things by halves. But be at ease - I won't suggest anything to his employer that is not founded upon firm convictions on my part. Convictions based on observation, not on wishful thinking," he adds when she looks at him with undisguised scepticism.

"How do you intend to observe him if he doesn't continue his treatment?"

"Unconventional patients, such as Greg, call for unconventional methods," Nolan says meditatively. "I'll take a page out of his book and set a PI on him."

_

* * *

Viola:  
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid  
For such disguise as haply shall become  
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke:  
[Twelfth Night, Act 1 Scene 2]_

**May 17, 2010: Day 2  
**(The day of the crane disaster in Trenton)

_Eight pm_

_**ACROSS:**_

_8. Big cousin to the violin (5)_

Lucas chews on his pencil. Could be _cello_. Or _viola_. He sighs. He hates crossword puzzles, but he's already completed the sudokus in the magazine. He needs one letter in the word, preferably not the fourth one, to decide which one it is to be. Down 10, that starts on the last letter of Across 8, reads: _River running through Shakespeare's birthplace (4)_. He scribbles AVON rapidly, then VIOLA into Across 8.

This is way too easy, he opines, tossing the magazine aside. Casting an irritated glance at the door of the house opposite his ice-cream van, he decides to decamp if nothing happens within the next fifteen minutes. If his target hasn't arrived by then, chances are that he won't visit his lover tonight. The incriminating photos will have to keep for another evening - Rachel is waiting and, even more pressing, he was supposed to have taken over from the babysitter five minutes ago.

His cell phone rings. He considers letting it ring - odds are that it's Lisa checking on him. She called an hour ago telling him that she'd be stuck out in Trenton for the rest of the night and asking him whether he could go home to look after Rachel. Control freak that she is, she probably doesn't trust him to make it back in time. Okay, she has a point. He'd promised her that he'd make it before eight so that Marina won't be pissed off . . . yet now he **will **be late, but hey, he'll sweet-talk or bribe Marina into a better mood when he gets home. As for Rachel, he can deal with her bedtime routine; there's really no need to keep checking on him and telling him stuff that he must have heard a thousand times by now. Kids are tough; millions of them survive every day under far worse conditions than those Rachel has to endure. He can understand, sort of, that Lisa worries about her in a special way - lose her, and Lisa's last chance at motherhood will have ended in a complete screw-up - but why worry about something that isn't likely to happen?

He knows Lisa won't let up once she's decided that there's something he absolutely has to know, so he reaches over and picks up the cell phone from the shelf that's supposed to hold ice-cream cones. Much to his relief the display reads 'Pete'. He's a colleague - they do each other favours every now and then.

"Hey, Pete."

"Lucas, how're you doing?"

"Great, absolutely great." He'd like to elaborate, but if he does, chances are he'll still be here in an hour, which will enrage Marina to the point that she'll report him to Lisa. "What can I do for you?" Pete doesn't call unless he needs a favour of some kind.

"Got a client here in Philly who wants to have a guy in Princeton observed. You still live there, don't you?"

"Yeah," he says, but without much enthusiasm. His schedule is more than full already, while Lisa undoubtedly harbours some sort of expectation that he'll be home every now and then as befits his newly established status as husband-and-father-to-be.

"Well, are you interested?"

Lucas hesitates. "Depends," he says. "Why aren't you taking the case?"

"I'm headed out with the old girl on vacation tomorrow. If I call it off, I won't be married much longer." Both men laugh wryly. "Don't worry, the client is above-board. He'll pay."

That is music in Lucas's ear. There is the slight matter of the engagement ring bought on credit. He's exceeded his budget by far, but there's no way he could have got some cheap, garish rock for Lisa. He may not be one of her bright young doctors, but he knows enough about the other sex to judge what a woman of Lisa's standing and tastes can be expected to wear. While money will not be a problem in the foreseeable future, he can hardly ask his fiancée to pay for her own ring.

"I thought of you," Pete continues, "because the target works at Princeton-Plainsboro. Isn't that where your girl-friend works too?"

"Yeah. Fiancée, actually," he corrects as an afterthought, the word gliding off his tongue as he rejoices inwardly at this windfall, this heaven-sent excuse to loiter around the hospital. Of course, Lisa mustn't get wind of what he's up to - she'll be livid if she finds out that he's targeting one of her precious lambs - but he can drop in to see her on paid time so to say, combining work with pleasure while implying that she's important enough for him to find the time to visit her despite his work load. It's a win-win. Plus, he gets to keep an eye on her, which'll help him to figure out what's been stressing her lately. She's been oddly silent about her work these last weeks. It's not that he ever listened all that attentively when she talked more about PPTH, but her reserve of late has been noticeable. **And** somewhat worrying. The name 'House' has disappeared from her active vocabulary altogether, and while he used to believe that he'd welcome the day when that happened (if it ever did), he now finds that not hearing about House any more is much more of a threat to his inner equilibrium than a daily dose of being wised up to his latest antics.

"Really? Congratulations! When's the happy day?"

"Uh, we haven't got that far. I proposed yesterday, and we're moving in together as soon as the new place is clear, but we haven't talked about the details as yet."

"Well, that's terrific. Though I can understand if you haven't got the time for this job, what with your new responsibilities ... she's got a kid, hasn't she?"

"Yes, a little girl. No, it'll be fine - I'll take it." Lucas can sense Pete's meaning. It's the same with everyone he's introduced Lisa to: they can't figure out how a guy like him got a girl like her until they hear that she's a single mom with a career, at which point they assume that he's a glorified babysitter. But it isn't quite like that. There's no denying that Lisa longs for a normal family life, dad-mom-kid, but she's got Marina for the actual child-care stuff, stuff that she'd rather not entrust to him, if truth be told. That rankles, as does the knowledge that he needn't have bothered proposing if it weren't for the disadvantage that her being single is proving to be in the adoption process.

But it isn't in his nature to look at a glass and see it as half-empty. The glass of his future is half-full; viewed from the right angle it even seems closer to three-quarters. This time last year he was just an ordinary sort of guy, doing his job, living in a run-down apartment, hanging out at bars and watching the odd ball game with a friend. Now that he's got the kind of girl he used to fantasize about without ever believing he stood a chance, they're moving into a place with a huge back yard (he'll build a swing and a sandbox for Rachel and they can have a dog, a Golden Retriever or a Labrador), financially everything is looking rosy (he's not the type to go into a brown study because his wife is more successful than he is) and given Lisa's age it's unlikely that the size of their future family will be an issue. It's not that he isn't fine with Rachel, nor would he have objected to a child of his own, but since Lisa is earning the big dollars it isn't a bad thing that they won't have to depend on his income while she pops out one kid after another. Still, the macho part of him resents the implication that he's at Lisa's beck and call. He's his own master, so he'll take this case that promises a reliable cash flow.

"Who's the client?"

"He's called Dr Nolan."

"Nolan?" The name rings a bell.

"N-O-L-A-N. Darryl Nolan. He runs a place called Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Here's the phone number."

Lucas notes down the number, his head spinning. Can this be a coincidence?

"You don't know the name of the target by any chance, do you?" he asks cautiously.

"Wait a sec... Here, got it. It's House, Gregory House."

Somewhere up in the heavens a benign deity is smiling down on Lucas Douglas.

_

* * *

Sir Toby Belch:  
What a plague means my niece, to take the death of  
her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.  
[Twelfth Night, Act 1 Scene 3]_

**May 18, 2010: Day 3  
**(The day after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_Noon_

No one is surprised not to see House at the hospital in the aftermath of the Trenton crane disaster. It's not that there is any sort of special dispensation for staff who worked at the site or in the ER the previous night - if there were, then Cuddy would have to close down the hospital for the day. Indeed, she immediately requisitions Chase to help out in surgery, the department that bore the brunt of the disaster. The remainder of the diagnostic department (consisting, at nine am, solely of Foreman, but Cuddy conveniently overlooks that, diplomatically choosing to ignore all issues involving punctuality or lack of motivation due to tiredness) is assigned to clinic duty for the day.

Foreman texts Taub and Remy to inform them that they have clinic duty as he makes his way to the clinic.

Remy turns up at noon.

"Where were you?" Foreman mouths at her as they pass each other at the clinic desk, she to pick up a file, he to pass on his current patient to radiology.

"Physiotherapy," she answers, not quite looking him in the eye.

He knows she's lying, she knows he knows; still, both choose to ignore it. Just as both know that he only asks where she's been because not asking would mean acknowledging that she has reason not to be at work continuously and reliably. So he raises a disapproving eyebrow at her tardiness, as befits his position as deputy head of diagnostics, while she tries for a look of apology and fails.

"Why are we here?" she asks.

"House isn't coming in today."

"Did he call?"

"Cuddy said."

"Is it true that he was at the site all night?"

"He came back with a patient at about 4 am," Foreman says, filling out the form for radiology with more precision than is strictly necessary. He can sense Remy watching him; she's far more sensitive to his moods than he likes.

"What's bothering you?" she asks.

He studies his file for another moment before shutting it and pushing it over to the nurse on duty. Then he looks at Remy with tight lips. She isn't going to like this - she's no Cameron, all starry-eyed and convinced that she knows what's best for House, but she's nowhere near as cold as she comes across to strangers.

"He lost the patient. He amputated her leg at the site. She had a fat embolism on the way to PPTH. There was nothing he could do."

Remy absorbs this, her patient file forgotten on the desk. "Did you talk to him?"

"I tried." It comes out defensively, although he has been telling himself that he has no reason to feel guilty. "He refused to listen. He was tired and he just wanted to go home."

Remy is no fool. "So you let him go."

He doesn't _need _to defend himself. "Yes."

She rolls her eyes as she turns away.

"What was I supposed to do - tie him down?"

"You know what he's like when he loses a patient! _He amputates a leg and she dies_. Does that sound familiar somehow? Should that make us worry about how he's taking it?" Her voice is dripping with sarcasm." I know you think he's an utter jackass, but even House has feelings!" She looks around for the nurse. "We should go and check on him."

"I've sent Taub a text message asking him to look in on House on his way here."

She looks pleasantly surprised, which cheers him (although he didn't do it for her), and picks up her file again.

Taub enters the clinic, tugging on a lab coat. "Chris Taub, clocking in at twelve," he says to the nurse, favouring her with a smile.

She doesn't fall for it. "Twelve-**fifteen**," she notes down pointedly.

He grimaces as he joins Foreman and Remy.

"Did you go to House's place?" Foreman asks.

"I did."

"Did you see him?" Remy says impatiently.

"No, I didn't. He wouldn't let me in." Foreman and Remy exchange a testy look. "He shouted a few choice epithets at me, so he's alive and responsive. If you wanted someone to break in, you should have gone yourself."

"There's a key on top of the door frame," Foreman remarks.

"So I should have asked the neighbour for a chair to help me get at the spare key to the apartment of a person who's yelling at me to go to hell loud enough to be heard two blocks away."

The image of Taub balancing on a chair in front of the door to House's apartment while the inhabitants of the surrounding apartments peer out to watch the fun is so incongruous that even Foreman has to smile.

"Now what?" Thirteen asks.

"Nothing. We let him be," Foreman rules. "This isn't an abnormal reaction for him. He always shuts himself off when he loses a patient. His pain level's up, so he's hiding. He'll come out in due time."

"And in the meantime?"

"We have clinic duty."

"I can't believe I fought for this fellowship only to spend my time diagnosing crotch rot," Taub grumbles.

The nurse overhears him. "Got something really exciting for you. Kid retching in Room 2," she grins, passing him the file.

_

* * *

Duke Orsino:  
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;  
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,  
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow  
Till thou have audience.  
[Twelfth Night, Act 1 Scene 4]_

**May 19, 2010: Day 4  
**(Two days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_Three pm_

"Mr Douglas, sir." The secretary stands aside to admit her companion to Nolan's office. Nolan rises and stretches out his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Douglas," he says. "Do sit down."

His visitor looks around the office. He walks over to the window and looks out, strolls over to the shelves and scans the book titles, examines the pictures on the walls. Nolan watches, amused at the kind of behaviour that would have him talking about attention deficiency or deflection or compulsive habits if Douglas were one of his patients. Having satisfied his curiosity Douglas sits down opposite Nolan. The objects on the desk are subject of the same intense scrutiny; Nolan can sense Douglas's fingers itching to pick something up.

"You have an assignment for me," Douglas says.

"Yes. I'd like to have someone observed. However, I can't give you much information on the person in question."

"Can't or won't?"

Nolan nods his head in appreciation. Douglas's fidgeting does not inspire confidence in his abilities, but he's probably no fool.

"Pete said it's a Dr Gregory House." Douglas waits for Nolan's confirmatory nod. "Forty-nine years old, resident of 221B Baker Street in Princeton, head of diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and a former inmate of this hospital."

_Obviously _no fool. But what exactly is he?

"I did some research before coming here," Douglas says casually. "You have a problem with patient confidentiality, right?"

"Yes," Nolan concedes.

"That's no problem with me. I've had cases where I didn't even have a name to go on - y'know, finding out who someone is cheating their spouse with - so this is a breeze."

"If you don't need any information from me, how come you agreed to come out here to meet me?"

"Whoa, that's not quite what I said! I said I don't need intel on Greg House as such; I can get at that without anyone violating patient confidentiality. Trust me, you don't want to know any details." He laughed a trifle self-consciously. "What I do need to know is what I'm to look for."

Nolan is silent, debating mentally whether this is what he really wants - a complete stranger whose trustworthiness is debatable investigating a patient whom he has come to respect and even to like.

Douglas continues, "See, in my experience, when men want other men observed, it's usually one of two reasons. One, there's a woman - wife, girl-friend, sometimes it's the daughter - involved." He looks expectantly over the desk, but it's bare of personal photos or the sort of knick-knacks that indicate offspring. "In that case I'd have to follow him everywhere, take pictures of everyone he meets, keep tabs on his phone calls ..." He pauses expectantly, but Nolan is silent. "Two, there's money involved. Then I'd track his expenditures, get bank statements, and so on."

"Okay, I get the picture." Nolan makes a decision. Staring out of the window he gathers his thoughts. What does he need in order to decide how Greg is doing? "I want to know how he spends his time, whom he meets, what he spends his money on - in short, anything out of the ordinary."

"That'll be difficult **and**expensive. It means round-the-clock surveillance."

Nolan can sense a certain amount of reluctance on Douglas's part, which is understandable. Watching someone 24/7 is uninspiring enough when it's done in eight-hour shifts in comfortable hospital environments. Out in the field in a cramped car parked outside the victim's house, enduring hours of unmitigated boredom in the hope of witnessing that one relevant action, not knowing whether it's going to happen or not, has to be the PI equivalent of scrubbing floors with a toothbrush.

"Besides, nothing about House is ordinary ... from what I've heard," Douglas adds quickly. He dips his hand into his backpack, rather like a magician performing a trick, and draws out two small cylindrical objects which he places on the desk. "I went through the trash at his building and found these. Plus these." Three empty scotch bottles join the cylinders. "Garbage disposal last came five days ago, so these have been in the trash for less than that. The scotch bottles could've come from some other resident, but they were in the same bin as the prescription bottles."

Nolan fingers the vicodin bottles. Their origin is indisputable, being issued in Greg's name. "Were they empty?"

Douglas's laugh is a short bark.

"Doesn't mean he took them," Nolan muses. "They're dated over three years ago, so they might be empty bottles he had lying around."

Douglas shrugs indifferently. "I just present evidence. You're the one who interprets it."

"How is it that you brought this, but not the entire contents of the trash bin?" Nolan asks.

"Head of an institution specializing in addiction issues wants a former inmate with a publicly known painkiller addiction observed. I figured. ... See, it's easy, really. We can do this without violating your precious patient confidentiality. We've narrowed your interests down to a manageable size in a jiffy, haven't we, without you having to say a word." Douglas is downright self-satisfied. "I'll have to monitor his trash at home and at work too, unfortunately, seeing as it's a hospital with an in-house pharmacy, keep an eye on the pharmacy log and another on him after work. How much money were you planning to invest and what time span are we talking about?"

"I can spare about a thousand dollars and I was thinking of a few weeks, maybe a month." He can justify a month's delay in reporting to Dr Cuddy, but not more than that.

Lucas grimaces. "That won't get us far. Can't do much personal surveillance on that amount, just the odd hour or two per week. Okay, what I can do is tap my informants. I can find out what he's up to at the hospital, and if he tries to buy at the illicit drug market in Princeton or Trenton I'll find out - he's pretty conspicuous by any standards. And I can check on him on an on-and-off basis, see whether he's got any sort of social life, whether he's getting wasted in bars, or whatever. Will that do for you?"

"Why are you so interested in this assignment?" Nolan asks.

"Interested?" Douglas tries to laugh it off.

"Yes, interested. You've come here prepared and you've already put work into this." Nolan indicates the assortment of bottles sitting on his desk. "If we don't come to an agreement, your effort will be wasted."

"Google and a short dig through a couple of trash cans." Douglas waves a casual hand. Nolan raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Look," Douglas hastens to add, "this kind of a contract is a god-send. When I track down a cheating spouse, no one gets happy. Can't ever prove that someone **is **faithful, only that they were so while I was observing them. If I prove they cheated, I have an unhappy client. Either way, he's never happy to pay. Now you: your position is practically a guarantee that you'll pay. And no matter what I turn up on House, it doesn't affect you personally, so you won't get pissed at me."

"Okay," Nolan says abruptly.

"Okay?" Lucas echoes.

"Yes. Observe Dr House and report to me as soon as you have anything of interest."


	2. Day 5 Part 1

_Malvolio:  
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.  
Olivia:  
Tell him he shall not speak with me.  
Malvolio  
Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you.  
[Twelfth Night, Act 1 Scene 5]_

**May 20, 2010: Day 5  
**(Three days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_Six pm_

Thirteen pokes her head through the door of the men's locker room.

"Are you done for the day?"

Chase, hair dripping wet and dressed only in boxers, jumps.

"Gee, Remy, you're getting as bad as House. Do you mind?" He tries to shoo her out again.

Thirteen smirks, entering the locker room instead, but she obligingly turns her back to Chase. "So?"

"Yes, I'm done. And if this is an attempt to get me to buy dinner for you, the answer is no. I've been on my feet since 7 o'clock and I'm fagged."

Thirteen, eyeing his reflection in one of the far mirrors, smiles even more. "No I'm not angling for an invite. I want you to check on House before you leave."

"Check on House?" Chase struggles into his pants, the ripple of his abdomen muscles making up for the disappearing anterior and posterior thigh muscles. "Why? I'm leaving now anyway, so you might as well check on him yourself."

"He's in pain. And he's behaving oddly."

"What's odd about his being in pain? He's missing a large chunk of thigh muscle. Now if he weren't in pain, that would be odd!"

"Odd is that he came in for a case an intern could have solved, odd is that he didn't go to Cuddy to requisition you back from surgery although he hates Thomas's guts, odd is that he made me get him a refill for his ibuprofen."

"What's odd about that? We're always running errands for him."

"Not to get him pain meds. He's very uptight about that."

"I distinctly remember him chugging vicodin in full public view. No bashfulness there!"

"Taking vicodin in public made him an object of outrage. He likes that. Ibuprofen makes him an object of pity, so he hides it." Thirteen knows about pity. She tries another tack. "Did you know that Wilson threw him out?"

"Out of where?"

"His condo."

"I thought they got it together."

"No, Wilson paid for it."

Chase pulls on a clean shirt. "You can turn round again. Do you know why?"

"Wilson's girl-friend and House don't get along."

"Who's surprised? That sort of explains why he's odd, doesn't it?"

"Look, he's in pain and he doesn't have anywhere to go. Maybe ..."

"Oh, you're angling for a dinner invitation for **House**? Reminds me of ... let me think ... guy from oncology ... gosh, can't remember his name!" Chase slams his locker door harder than necessary. "How much are **you **willing to pay?"

"You didn't do it for the money that time," Thirteen says shrewdly.

"Look, I've seen this before: young female fellow going all dreamy-eyed on House and making it her mission to fix him. Trust me, he doesn't want you to fix him."

"This isn't about fixing him. This is about stopping him from making a giant mistake. To put it in terms that you understand: if he goes down, we go with him. If he loses his licence again, there's no way Cuddy'll be able to get the board to take him back. And somehow I don't think she'll give Foreman the department, let alone one of us. She'll close it down for sure."

Chase ponders this as he shrugs on his jacket. "Okay, I'll go check on him, but I don't promise anything." He's halfway out of the door when he leans back in again. "Don't think I didn't notice you checking me out. It's always the same with you gals - you think a guy is fair game the moment the ink on his divorce papers is dry."

* * *

House scowls when Chase enters his office. "Where have you been?"

"Surgery. They were short-staffed, so Cuddy asked me to go help out these last few days."

"**I'm **your boss. Next time clear it with me." But there's no real bite in his voice; his objection is only a matter of form. Calling Chase out of a surgery for a case as simple as the last one would have been stupid and an insult to Chase's intelligence.

"I didn't think you were coming in. Have we got a case?" Chase asks.

"You're too late. It's solved."

"Oh." Chase tries for something between surprise and remorse, but the look of clueless ingenuity doesn't sit well on him.

"But you know that already. So, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same," Chase counters.

House peers at him, and then he peers even more pointedly at his door. "Last time I looked, it was **my **name on the door. I'm going home now." To underline the statement he rises, grabs his cane with one hand and takes a few experimental steps. His leg is shaky, but bears up. The worst seems to be over.

"And then?" Chase queries boldly. House gives him a don't-even-try-to-get-personal look, but Chase doesn't back down. House, caught by surprise at this unexpected piece of resistance, lets his eyes slide away.

"Gonna get trashed?" Chase continues.

House's eyes snap back. "And if I did?"

"You're an idiot, House..."

"Says the expert on staying sober. Are you divorced yet?" It's a snide little dig, but House really isn't in the mood for another karaoke session or, even worse, a heart-to-heart with Chase where both bemoan the fickleness of their respective cohabitants of the past year.

"... and an ass, but that isn't the point. Alcohol is a stupid drug. You've been addicted; you've been in hell and made it back. Do you want to risk all that for a drug that won't even ease the pain?"

"Oh, addiction wasn't all hell. Sometimes it was downright heavenly. It filtered out all those nagging voices saying, 'House, you're an addict!'" House does his best imitation of a scolding aunt in Chase's face.

"If it was so heavenly, why'd you go through detox and rehab and fight to stay clean for a year?"

"Hey, House!" Foreman walks in, oblivious to what he's interrupting.

"I thought you were gone," House growls.

"I was, almost. But there's someone prowling around your car."

"And you're telling **me **instead of, say, security or the police, because you want me to scare him away with my big stick."

"I'm telling you because he looks like that detective guy you hired a couple of years ago to spy on us. I thought you wouldn't appreciate it if I called the cops and it turns out that he's out there waiting for you."

"Or for Cuddy," Chase adds. A warning glance from Foreman makes him append, "Uh, he's also done assignments for her."

So the whole hospital knows about Cuddy and Lucas. House wonders whether Cuddy is aware of this. True, Lucas was there a a few times to pick her up, but she didn't exactly flaunt him. Whether this is because Lucas isn't what any sane person would consider a prime prize in the matchmaking sweeps, not for someone like Cuddy, or whether Cuddy wanted to spare House anguish is a debatable point.

The ramifications of her personal life being public knowledge are clear to House, if not to her. It is one thing for James Wilson MD to discard wives in the manner of Bluebeard, but quite another for a female Dean of Medicine. There is her position to consider, her current family status as a mother and, sadly, her gender. The board of governors, a reactionary bunch at the best of times, would disapprove albeit taciturnly if they knew that she's dropped one boy-friend to start something with someone else. That silent censure would morph to vociferous and open antagonism if it came out that her new love interest is an employee of hers and her most annoying one to boot.

Not that House is sure at this moment whether Cuddy and he are still an 'item'.

_The past three days have been turbulent. That first night, no, morning, after she found him in his bathroom grasping the vicodin, she left after disposing of the vicodin down the toilet, cleaning out the bathtub and running him a bath. Oh, and changing his bandage, her nominal reason for turning up. And there was a bit of kissing and a teensy bit of groping, but honestly, neither of them were exactly in the mood. (Even if they had been, her babysitter calling to say she'd abandon the orphan to her fate if someone didn't relieve her __stat killed off any desire to get frisky.) She'd wanted to go home to relieve the babysitter, shower and have breakfast with Rachel before returning to the hospital. They were both sure he was fine. He bathed and then slept, only to wake at midday with a searing pain in his thigh. By evening, when Cuddy dropped in toting her kid, he was a shivering mess huddled in a corner of the couch, washing down his ibuprofen with scotch. Cuddy took one look at him and dumped the kid on the rug._

_"Where's your emergency medication?" she asked, admittedly a reasonable question._

_"Wilson's place." He'd forgotten it when moving out because he'd stowed it in Wilson's medicine cabinet in Wilson's bathroom where, according to Wilson, he had no business to be. He'd noticed when he started unpacking his stuff, but he'd thought, what the hell, he worked in a hospital and could pick up new medication any time; there was no need to go back to Wilson's place just for that. Needless to say, he'd forgotten all about it ..._

_"What do you need?"_

_"Lyrica. Zanaflex."_

_Cuddy dug around in her bag, but the short flash of hope that flared up quickly died down - she didn't extract medication, but only a few toys for the marsupial and a box of snacks. She arrayed_ _these around her cub, picked up her bag again and made for the door._

_"Cuddy!" he called, alarmed. His apartment wasn't child-proof and he was in no state to chase a toddler around it._

_"I'll be back quicker if I leave her here. Don't worry - she won't move." With that she was gone._

_He sank back on the couch cursing her roundly. Parents were idiots who harboured illusions about their offspring that bore no relation to reality, but privately he'd nursed the hope that Cuddy, blessed with above-average intelligence and medical training, would prove an exception to this iron rule. An eighteen-month-old who stayed put on a rug for however long it took Cuddy to get her prescription pad, organize the medication and return?_

_Turned out that Cuddy was right. The sloth really did stay put and was remarkably content with her snacks and toys. Other than the occasional grunt there was no sound, and he would have drowsed off if a louder squawk than usual hadn't brought her back to his notice. She'd tipped her box of snacks over, away from herself, and had flopped forward in an attempt to get at a wayward slice of apple._

_"Don't bother; that apple promises more than it keeps, as the mother of all sinners found out at the beginning of time."_

_Humpty-Dumpty squeaked once more, while House found himself watching her attempts to right herself with interest. As her face crunched up in frustration, he turned himself sideways on the couch so he could reach her and pull her upright - solely in order to stop her from screaming her head off before her mother returned. Then, while he was at it, he tipped her back somewhat, supporting her head with one hand and holding her hands together gently over her chest with the other. He released hands and head simultaneously, but caught the head again at once before it hit the ground. She flung her arms out sideways, her face startled, but then drew them back in again, her elbows flexed. House seated her upright again, after which he pushed the snacks that were strewn over the floor towards her with his cane. He had no idea what Cuddy would say when she saw her kid eating stuff off his floor, but it hadn't been __**his **__idea to place her there._

_His relief at Cuddy's return with his meds was short-lived: an attempt to move him to the bedroom left him retching, his leg cramping so badly that he literally screamed. _

_Cuddy wanted to admit him, but he refused - some idiotic resident too stupid to read the big red sticker on his file that __screeched:__ No Opiates! would offer him morphine and he'd be too weak to refuse. He was in no state, however, to explain this to Cuddy, to do more than grunt, "NOT going to hospital," so she yelled at him for being a stubborn idiot. _

_Her place was out of the question, for Lucas had neither picked up his stuff nor returned his key, and there was no way House was going to risk a confrontation with Lucas in his present state. It was bad enough that Cuddy had to see him like this, but his pride wouldn't allow him to have Lucas muster him, his mobile mien saying as clearly as if he were bawling the words through a megaphone, "Is __**this **__what Lisa is leaving me for? An invalid whom she'll have to nurse, a cripple with the shakes, craving his next fix?"_

_Luckily, much the same line of reasoning must have passed through Cuddy's mind, for she forbore to shout at him for rejecting a move to her place. Perhaps she didn't want him there anyway._

_The yelling set in again with a vengeance when he also brushed aside her suggestion to call Wilson._

_"He's your __**friend**__, for goodness sake! He'll be happy to help. House, please! I'm not asking you to move in with him again. Just let him come and check on you, spend the night here ..."_

_"He'll - swamp me - with psycho-babble," House grunted. Again, this was shorthand for a complexity of reasons that he couldn't (and wouldn't) have explained to Cuddy even if he were able to talk intelligibly, which he wasn't. Wilson would walk in and lecture him on the psychosomatic aspects of his pain as a result of losing a patient to Death's sharpened scythe and Cuddy to his rival's wooing. Then he'd walk into the bathroom, see the hole in the wall and go all huffy and reproachful on him. He'd never believe that House didn't take the vicodin; furthermore, he'd ascribe everything that House said about Cuddy to__ narcotic-__induced hallucinations._

_Of course, House could refer him to Cuddy, but did he really want Wilson scrutinizing their whatever-it-was? He and Cuddy hadn't__ actually __agreed on anything yet. Cuddy was on the rebound; it was only fair to give her the time to reconsider and the space to decide whether she wanted to jump straight into the next commitment. If Wilson got scent of this, he'd pass it on to someone or other, and then it would spread through the hospital like algae on a pond, leaving Cuddy with little chance of back-pedalling without being written off as the hospital harlot. Yet how was he to explain to a solicitously hovering Wilson why Cuddy was bouncing in and out of his apartment like a flaming jack-in-the-box without divulging at least some of what had transpired in and after Trenton? No, he didn't want Wilson over._

_At this point the rug-rat, who'd been getting increasingly distressed at the noise level, started bawling in a high-pitched counterpoint to Cuddy's__ kvetching. __It was too much._

_"Get the banshee out of here," he ordered._

_Cuddy froze, the concern for him that had shone through her diatribe instantly transferred to her little runt. She scooped Rachel up and departed without a backward glance. Before he could decide whether he should be thanking his stars for the blissful silence that now reigned or cursing them for letting him open his big, stupid mouth, she was back again, setting up the medication on the coffee table, making a hurried sandwich in the kitchen and dragging a pillow and his duvet from the bedroom to the couch. Through the open window he could hear Rachel screaming her head off in the car that Cuddy must have parked in the no-parking zone right in front of the apartment._

_"Don't ... overdo it, okay?" she said, nodding her head at his meds and the scotch._

_"Go, before the neighbours call the police or social services," he muttered, avoiding her eyes, feeling ashamed of the bottle of scotch and helpless at causing even more bother than the panty-pooper parked so unceremoniously on the curb outside. Underneath that there was a current of anger at Cuddy and himself that the little squirt had to suffer fears of maternal desertion because they, two rational grown-ups, couldn't get their act together. Actually, it was __**his **__fault that Cuddy had left her alone in the car, because __**he'd **__snapped at her to get the kid out of his apartment._

_Cuddy stilled at his words. He felt her eyes resting on him. He wanted nothing more than to look at her, to show her that he appreciated her care, that he wanted her there, that he hadn't meant to sound gruff and rejecting, but he knew that she'd read all that and more in his gaze and feel obliged to stay with him. That, however, would just mean more bother for her - she must be up for thirty-six hours straight now, barring cat-naps in her office - and discomfort for the kid, who'd feel ill at ease at having to sleep in strange surroundings, being shushed continuously by a mother worried about disturbing the cranky misanthrope she'd got herself involved with. So he resolutely averted his gaze while Cuddy tugged at the duvet, placed the remote control within his reach and placed a (superfluous) glass of water on the coffee table next to the meds. Then she departed in silence._

_An hour later a nurse arrived._

_"I didn't order a hooker," he grumbled, but secretly he was happy to see her. With her help and a generous mix'n'match of scotch and the medication Cuddy had left for him, he made it to the bathroom and then to bed._

_The next day was marginally better. The nurse departed after breakfast and he was sanguine at first, but the pain returned around midday. When Cuddy turned up during her lunch break, he was on the couch trying to suppress all visible symptoms so as not to worry her into 'maternal caring mode'. She was stressed and in a rush, but she took in the scattered pills (he'd spilled any number of them struggling with child-proof bottle caps and shaking them out with trembling hands) and the scotch bottle ( which he hadn't touched that day) with one glance and his abject form with another. When she strode over rapidly, putting out a hand to feel his forehead, he, guilt-ridden because he'd self-medicated generously with little regard for his liver or kidneys, flinched away instinctively from her hand as though she'd tried to hit him. She stepped back at once; from the way she avoided all physical contact after that he knew that she had misinterpreted his reaction, believing that he didn't want her to touch him. _

_He spent the rest of her short visit longing for those casual gestures that always marked her interactions with him: the pats on his arm, the quick clasp of his hand, the playful shove in his chest - but he couldn't bring himself to explain, not when it meant admitting to his father's abuse ... and Stacy's, at times. (She'd slap him hard when she got seriously pissed - he'd got used to flinching back to avoid the worst of the blow - and there had been the occasional mug flung at him that hadn't missed its target.)_

_So he just growled, "I'm fine. Don't mother me!" which made the situation worse._

_"Look ... I can't come this evening. Lucas is dropping by to pick up his stuff. Do you need the nurse?"_

_"I don't want her. I'm FINE!"_

_"Right, I'm sure you are." Her voice oozed sarcasm. "I didn't ask whether you wanted her, I asked whether you __**needed **__her."_

_"NO!"_

_"Alright." She hesitated. "I'll call you this evening."_

_"Okay."_

_When she called around ten pm the pain had abated to the point that he could speak lucidly without lashing out at every sentence. So he said he was fine again, and to pre-empt midnight emergency visits and the like, he added casually that he was returning to work the next day._

_"Work? House, are you crazy?"_

_"A case might take my mind off the pain."_

_She was silent; he could sense her weighing up the disadvantage of his venturing outside his own four walls against the advantage of having him under her nose. He'd done the same before suggesting it, balancing the distress of having the team see him in his present state against the relief of allaying Cuddy's worries._

_"Okay," she said reluctantly, "but ..."_

_He interrupted her to forestall any more molly-coddling. "Did Lucas appear?"_

_She sighed. "Yes. It was awkward. I'm not sure whether he got the message. And then I forgot ..." She trailed off._

_"What?"_

_"Oh, nothing. It'll be alright," she said as though trying to convince herself._

_Telephone small talk wasn't one of his stronger points. "I'll see you tomorrow."_

_"Yes. Shall I pick you up?"_

_"No. We shouldn't be seen coming in together." He prepared himself for a battle over this. When she accepted that without a fight he wasn't as relieved as he'd thought he'd be. It wasn't that he expected her to acknowledge their relationship openly right from the start, so going in separately was definitely a good idea. It didn't mean she was ashamed of him ... although he was nothing to be proud of at the moment - barely able to walk, drowsy and woozy from the medication - and certainly not a suitable boyfriend for the Dean of Medicine._

_He came in at a reasonable time, 'reasonable' meaning: not so late that Cuddy would worry and check on him. His first stop was the clinic, where he picked up the only file that could be deemed promising and overheard Taub arranging a date for that evening with the blonde nurse he'd been flirting with the last __few__ weeks. He whistled for Taub to come to heel, interrupted the examinations Foreman and Thirteen were conducting and held the first differential in Examination Room 3. That aggravated Foreman, who lost face in front of his clinic patient when House wouldn't let him finish treating her, annoyed Thirteen because he pulled her off her patient but didn't bother to call Chase from surgery, and pissed Taub off, because House slapped down all his suggestions, preferring to go with Foreman's theory. (This had nothing whatsoever to do with Taub hitting on that stupid blonde nurse, Myra or Maya or whatever, although Foreman's suggestion was so far-fetched that even Foreman was surprised that House deigned to consider it)._

_Having caused enough of an uproar to alert Cuddy to his presence and ensured that a string of complaints from clinic staff and patients (the former at having an examination room blocked by his differential and three doctors pulled off the rota, the latter at having their treatment interrupted) would punctuate her morning routine, he was fairly confident that he'd managed to reassure Cuddy regarding the state of his health, for normally his disruptive streak was inversely proportional to his pain level. So, after assigning all the useless tests called for by Foreman's obviously erroneous diagnosis to Taub to run, he withdrew to the comfort of his Eames chair and his PSP._

_Cuddy came in soon after, carrying a pile of medical journals and murmuring something __sotto voce about an appointment with her lawyer and visiting her mother. The buzzing in his ears, a side-effect of the pain he was in once more after the morning's modest efforts, precluded his hearing much of what she said, matters being complicated by Foreman and Thirteen in the conference room not even pretending not to listen. He realized that it was the first time since Trenton that he and Cuddy were officially in each other's company again; judging by the looks he'd earned from the clinic staff this morning, some of what had transpired over there, probably the bit about Cuddy being done with him, had made it back to the hospital. Well, too bad for both sides: his team should know by now that Cuddy yelled hard, but forgave even faster; as for Cuddy, he had no intention of getting involved in whatever time management problem she was struggling with. Besides, the fuller her schedule, the less likely she was to breathe down his neck because of his minor thigh issue._

_So, for his team's benefit as much as for hers, he growled, "What do you want, woman?"_

_She cast a furtive glance at his team and said, loudly this time for their edification, "I found these. Take a look at them."_

_The journals had one thing in common: they all featured some article or other on pain management. There was no way she could have dug them all out in the course of one morning - she must have been hoarding them__, __waiting for an opportunity to __palm __them off on him. He picked up a few journals and read the titles at random (well, not quite at random - he made sure to pick the more ridiculous approaches)._

_"Hypnosis. LLLT. Biofeedback." He tossed the journals back onto the pile._

_"House, don't be so bloody obstinate! Just look through these. There might be something in there that ..."_

_"__**None **__of this new age garbage would survive a serious clinical study. What are you, a doctor or a voodoo priestess? If you want to help, get me a decent flat-screen."_

_Cuddy stormed out, her heels beating out an angry rap along the corridor, not to be seen again the rest of the day. The flat-screen didn't materialize. Instead, Wilson appeared at one with a Reuben, a soda and the anticipated babble on the connection between Cuddy's presumed love life with Lucas (the twists and turns of which he was thankfully still ignorant of) and House's pain problems, while at two pm a physiotherapist turned up._

_"Dr House? Dr Cuddy sent me up to give you a massage."_

_"You're not touching my leg!"_

_"She didn't specify which part of your body."_

_"Oh, goody! I know exactly where I'd like ..."_

_"And she said that if you got annoying I should jab my elbow into your right thigh."_

_After testing her abilities on the knots in his shoulders and neck, he finally let her do his leg, after which he spent the afternoon snoozing fitfully in his chair. At five pm the first test results came in, confirming Taub's initial diagnosis (which was also House's secret favourite) and refuting Foreman's tentative guess. House decreed that Taub, as diagnosing physician, should stay the night to oversee the success of the patient's treatment - if Rachel Taub was to spend the evening alone, so would Nurse Mia or Mina - and sent the others home. _

_Still no sign of Cuddy. Shit, had he managed to screw it up in all of three days? He was wondering whether to call her and 'make up' (or whatever it was that one did when one one wasn't officially 'a thing' and hadn't fought, but wasn't talking to one another) when Chase appeared._

House surfaces from his musings to find Foreman and Chase looking at him with concerned expressions.

"I know about Cuddy and Lucas," he says. "How dense do you think I am?"

Relief and a certain amount of speculation is apparent in both their features.

"I've got a pool going on how long they'll last," Chase says. "Do you want in? 2 to 1 that they'll be engaged by August, 7 to 1 that they'll be married by then, 10 to 1 that they'll split up ditto."

House's hand automatically goes to his back pocket where he keeps his wallet, but then he hesitates. He has no compunction about using his insider knowledge, but a dark, medieval corner of his mind believes that if he puts his money on the last-named option, the fates will conspire to boot him out of Cuddy's life and reinstate Lucas. Foreman uses the opportunity to pass on another titbit of knowledge.

"Cuddy's gone for the day, so he can't be waiting for her."

That only leaves himself. After bouncing his cane a few times in thought, he heads towards Wilson's office. Wilson is at his desk, completing the day's paperwork, sleeves rolled up. He looks up in surprise as House enters.

"House! ... You're better?"

"Peachy." He lowers himself gingerly onto the couch, grimacing slightly as he pulls his right leg up. Wilson frowns at the sight of House's sneaker on the upholstery.

"Foreman sighted Lucas prowling around my car in the parking lot. I'm not sure whether a run-in between Lucas and me on hospital grounds is in everyone's best interest."

"Wow! That's ... very mature of you." Wilson pauses, eyeing House curiously. "It does, however, beg the question why you should fear a 'run-in'."

House twirls his cane. He has no idea what Cuddy told Lucas, but Lucas is nobody's fool. Although Cuddy broke off the engagement without knowing if she and House would ever make it into a relationship, it is obvious that if it weren't for House lurking in the background, she'd carry out her plan of partner, progeny and white picket fence with the same iron determination that she applies to administrating PPTH. She and Lucas aren't inherently incompatible - they are only so because Cuddy has the hots for House. Looking Lucas in the eye and pretending that he, House, has no hand in his present misery will be ... difficult, especially given that he **did **try to woo Cuddy away from Lucas - subtly by his own standards, but nonetheless with a certain amount of persistence. He'd known deep inside that respecting her decision to be with Lucas while showing that he cared for her would hollow her resolve and erode whatever walls she'd put up against him. Her walls were built to withstand the autumnal gales of major manipulative interference, not the steady spring drizzle of unconditional support.

All this, however, is none of Wilson's concern; if it turns out that Cuddy has had enough of him already, then he'd rather not have Wilson dissecting his character, pointing out just which malignant growths lie at the root of his inability to bond with others.

"I heard that there was some major disagreement between you and Cuddy at Trenton," Wilson observes, probably trying to loosen House's tongue with a helpful hint.

"The angry make-up sex is always terrific," House dead-pans. Stay as close to the truth as possible if you don't want Wilson to smell a rat.

"You had to poke and pry at this thing between her and Lucas until she snapped, didn't you? And now he's in the parking lot ready to bloody your nose as revenge for upsetting his girl-friend. Good grief, House, he showed you that time in the cafeteria that he can get nasty. Did you have to push it?" Wilson is massaging the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of inner distress.

"Be a good fella, Wilson. Go down there and talk him out of beating me to a pulp. I'm rather fond of my face the way it is."

"You've got a first-rate plastic surgeon on your team," Wilson quips, but he gets up obligingly and leaves.

Sending Wilson down is doubtless not an ideal solution, but it is preferable to the team getting wind of something going on between him and Cuddy before it is official. Foreman would stop respecting Cuddy, Chase would get stakes going in no time, and he wouldn't put it beyond Taub to indulge in some modest blackmail.

House's cell phone rings. "Yeah?"

"He says he comes in peace and just wants to talk to you," Wilson says.

"Tell him I'm not here any more - that I left with Chase."

Short pause. "Yeah, he says he figured you were stowed away in the trunk of Chase's car."

"I guess I could go out the back and get a cab," House muses aloud.

"Forget it. He already said that if you did that he'd call on you at your apartment. I think you're better off dealing with him at the hospital. He'll be on cctv and I can call security if need be."

"Have you told him that my leg is giving me hell?"

Another pause. "He says he wants to **talk**, not walk."

"Oh my, quite the stand-up comedian, isn't he?"

"I'm dying of laughter," Wilson says drily. "I'll bring him up, shall I?"

"Yeah, I guess." House snaps his cell-phone shut, wishing that he'd dug a bit deeper when talking to Cuddy the night before. She'd kept something from him, something about Lucas, but he'd still been in too much physical distress to worm it out of her.

"Hey, House." Lucas saunters in, looking smug and at ease, Wilson trailing behind him with ill-concealed concern. "Jeez, I'm real bad at this stalking stuff - always get caught, don't I?"

"Yes - maybe you wanted to get caught," House surmises.

"Didn't really, but now that my cover's blown, I figured that a man-to-man talk might clear the air, so to say. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression of what I'm up to, get paranoid about me or anything. ... Can we talk alone?" Lucas gives Wilson a sideways glance.

"Sure." House waves a casually dismissive hand at Wilson.

Wilson looks as if he wants to debate this, but then he throws up his hands, shakes his head and goes out on the balcony.

"Doesn't trust me, does he? ... Hey, he's got a really cool office. What's this?" Lucas prowls around, picking up the odd trinket, peering at Wilson's cups and awards, and finally perches on his desk with a tin duck in his hand. "Oh, neat! Look at this - you wind it up here and then ..."

"Yeah, yeah. Something one of his cancer kids gave him. Why are you observing me?"

Lucas gives him a 'dumb question, dude' look. "I'm getting paid for it."

"Ah. By whom?"

"Can't tell, can I? Client confidentiality. He'd be pissed as hell if he knew that I've blown it."

"Gimme a break! You wouldn't be up here talking to me if you weren't intending to spill the beans."

"No, actually ...," Lucas scratches his head, looking genuinely embarrassed, "I hadn't ... it was kinda stupid, getting caught. But since it's happened, I may as well make the best of it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours," he concludes cheerfully.

"Well, start scratching mine by telling me the name of your client."

"Sorry, confidential information is not up for grabs," Lucas says smoothly. "But I'll tell you this: he was very interested in the two vicodin bottles I fished out of your trash."

House gets an inkling of where this is going. "Nice. What do you want?"

"You're a clever guy, House. You can make this tough for me, now that you know I'm observing you: place red herrings, lead me on wild goose chases, set the police on me. Or you can make things easy for me."

"What's in it for me?"

"My client isn't the only one who'd show interest in those vicodin bottles. Lisa, I think, would be interested, too ... and extremely pissed!"

House stills. How much, exactly, does Lucas know? Evidently not everything. Is he really ignorant of the state of affairs between House and Cuddy or is he bluffing?

"Do you think so?" House asks, probing.

"Oh, yes," Lucas replies. "You pissed her off good and proper in Trenton; I'm told she was foaming at the mouth." He laughs unpleasantly.

"You were told?" House probes.

"She was acting odd when she got back, so I asked around: the EMT crew, the firemen at the site. Everyone agrees that you surpassed yourself. If she finds out that you're back on vicodin, she'll have your ass." House is silent. "Oh, come on! You know that you've used up all your credit with her. You're back at work much earlier than anyone expected. That means you're trying to placate her."

Is Lucas playing him or is he really clueless? No, he can't be playing him, because he'd never dare to pretend to an intact relationship with Cuddy if he weren't certain that House knows nothing of the break-up. God only knows what convoluted logic he's applying to make sense of Cuddy's desertion, but it doesn't seem to include House as causative agent. Oh, the ability of the human mind to delude itself! Lucas has also unwittingly admitted to having a source in the hospital. How else would he know whether House was expected back at work or not? It's probably someone in the lobby or in the clinic.

House decides to play along for the moment. "This won't pull. Empty vicodin bottles are proof of **nothing**. As long as my regular drug screenings are negative, there's not much she can do."

"How long do you think you can cheat on those once Lisa finds out that you've relapsed?"

"I haven't relapsed."

"No," Lucas says with heavy sarcasm, "you just slipped up a little, right?"

"Why didn't you run straight to her with the pill bottles?"

Lucas's eyes shift slightly - he's always been a miserable liar. "She's under a lot of pressure at the moment: moving house, the hassles with the adoption, then the disaster at Trenton. She shouldn't have to deal with you on top of all that."

"How considerate! ... Hassles with the adoption?" Is there something there that he should know of? She'd mentioned something about an unexpected appointment with her lawyer when she was in his office.

Before he can place an exploratory needle on that spot Lucas continues, "It'll be fine once we're married. I'm sure the adoption will be finalized then."

He's baiting House, that much is clear. House can't afford to ignore the planned 'slip-up' without giving away that he knows about the engagement.

"Married?" House asks slowly, pretending to hide surprise and hurt, but actually playing for time.

"Yeah, we're engaged." Lucas is mustering him, analysing his reaction.

House opts for the disbelief that characterized his initial reaction when he heard the news from Cuddy. "She isn't wearing a ring."

"No, not at work. She wants to keep it quiet. I think she's afraid that you're still vulnerable or something. But you're fine with it, aren't you?"

"What? Oh, yes. Just grand." Lucas really doesn't know; he'd never try to pull off a stunt like this if he did. But how can he not know if he is observing House? Casting back his mind over the past days House perceives that although everything seems to be circling around Cuddy for **him**, their 'quality time' has been limited. Today they saw each other fairly briefly (and none too harmoniously) at work, yesterday Cuddy was over at his place for less than an hour, the day before for not that much longer. If Lucas isn't observing him around the clock, he could easily have missed seeing Cuddy at his apartment.

"Stalemate, I'd say," House remarks amiably. "You don't want to upset Cuddy, and **I **can guarantee you that you won't be able to prove that I took vicodin. She'll be smoking once she's finished apologizing to me for any extra drug screenings she puts me through at your instigation. I hope her couch is comfortable, because you won't be sleeping anywhere near her for aeons after that."

Lucas looks undecided. House appreciates his dilemma, but he's growing tired of this.

"Look, Lucas, even if I were back on vicodin, Cuddy isn't going to thank you for rubbing her nose in it. It means she'll have to act, and chances are that this time the board will fire me. Do I have to spell out to you how unhappy she'll be at losing her biggest asset - other than her ass?"

"Damn," Lucas says good-naturedly, "you've just called my bluff."

"The name of your client," House demands.

"What do I get in return?"

"Free access to my office. I take it that you already searched my apartment today?" Lucas nods.

House sighs. Confronting Lucas is invigorating, but he's had enough of him for one day. Besides, something, some stray thought is niggling him; he wants his peace so that he can chase it.

"I can probably find out who your client is, if I put my mind to it," he says tiredly, "so just tell me and spare me the bother."

"Darryl Nolan," Lucas says after a moment's hesitation.

"Nolan?" Whatever he's expecting, it isn't that. He isn't sure how he feels about this. "Interesting. Why is he having me observed?"

"Not part of the bargain," Lucas objects. "I told you who is paying me, now you let me examine your office."

"Okay," House concedes. "But no bugs. If I find any sort of surveillance equipment, I'll call in the cops."

"Christ, man, what do you take me for? ... Okay, okay, no bugs."

"Hey, Wilson!"

Wilson comes in from the balcony.

"Can you keep an eye on him while he snoops around my office?"

"Why are you letting him nose around in there?" Wilson asks.

"Don't ask!"

Wilson is irritated, justifiably so. Being escort to the person who messed up his new condo does not rank as a treat. "Why don't **you **go with him?" he asks.

"Gotta check something out." House avoids Wilson's eyes. If Wilson knew that House is planning to break into Cuddy's office, he'd cause a scene.

"Oh, okay. Come along," Wilson says to Lucas, exuding open hostility.

House takes the elevator to the first floor, trying not to let the unease he felt during his mind-battle with Lucas cloud his thinking. Cuddy **has **broken up with Lucas, hasn't she? Why would Lucas then pretend to be engaged to her? Surely he knows that his bluff will be called the moment House runs into Cuddy. Ah, but Lucas believes that the communication between House and Cuddy has hit an all-time low after Trenton. Perhaps he's banking on their stand-off continuing for long enough that he can woo Cuddy back. Possibly he dropped the news of his engagement to Cuddy solely to gauge House's reaction; had House called his bluff, any suspicion he harbours concerning House's part in the break-up would have been confirmed.

Or maybe, the nagging voice of uncertainty in House's mind suggests, they aren't really apart._ You've been through this with Stacy, she kept Mark on hold while she secured you._

The front lobby desk is still manned, but the clinic is deserted at this hour. Breaking into Cuddy's office is hilariously simple, as always. One would think that a year-long association with a PI would have improved her consciousness for security issues, but no.

Seating himself in Cuddy's chair, he flicks idly through the papers on her desk, wondering exactly what he is expecting to find. Her calendar is as good a starting place as any. At sixteen hours, circled in red, she's noted 'Webber & Rose', a well-known Princeton law firm.

Ah, yes, today in his office she'd murmured something about an urgent meeting with her lawyer this afternoon, but she'd said she'd be back afterwards to 'check on him'. The implication that he can't be trusted to look after himself had irritated him so much that he hadn't listened to the rest of her communiqué. This might be the explanation to what is bothering him on a subconscious level - he's expecting her back, because she said it would only be a short meeting. While basking in the pleasure of another little mystery solved, he pouts at this indirect proof that he's either so dependent on her presence or already so deeply possessive of her that an unexplained absence suffices to perturb him. Furthermore, it raises a question, namely the one of her present whereabouts.

There are no appointments noted in her calendar from 6 pm onwards, which is not all that surprising considering that she is totally at the mercy of her babysitter who probably has strong opinions on late nights. She has, however, shaded that portion of the calendar a different colour, something he doesn't recall having seen before (odd). Turning pages, he notes that the next day (odder), the day after (even odder) ... the next five days are shaded exactly the same way and contain no appointments whatsoever (oddest!).

If this were anyone else, he'd assume they were on vacation. But Cuddy doesn't do vacations - she doesn't even know how to spell the word. The most she'll permit herself is a personal day on a Friday or Monday for an extended weekend with her mother or her sister. Hang on, didn't she mention her mother somewhere in the verbal garbage that he'd mostly blocked out? Damn, she did! But spending five days straight with her mother when the woman lives a mere five hours away? He now remembers - things he didn't register consciously are re-surfacing - that she'd asked whether he'd be alright while she was gone, a question he'd considered so ridiculous (not having cottoned on that she'd be gone five whole days) that he'd merely grunted in reply.

_Get a grip! _he tells himself._ You don't need a bloody babysitter_.

He boots her computer, hacks into her account and scrolls through her emails. He finds a booking confirmation for a flight to Seattle leaving from New York tonight. Seattle? Now he knows what she's up to: she's going that endocrinology conference that she insists on attending year after year in the hope that it'll make her feel more 'doctor-like'.She'll have to leave Princeton within the next hour or so to make the flight, he figures. Okay, that would explain why she hasn't returned to the hospital: she must have got delayed and is now in a rush to pick up the parasite and make the flight. She'll probably phone (guilt-ridden) once she's safely checked in.

The conference only lasts two-and-a-half-days - he knows that because he chafes at the bit every year she does this, missing her presence, resenting having to deal with whatever dumb deputy she's chosen to install, floundering in his dealings with administration where no one seems to speak the same language as he when she isn't there to interpret. There are therefore still two days in her calendar that are not accounted for.

He scrolls down the confirmation email to the return flight data: she's booked a circle itinerary for herself and Rachel, going from Seattle to Pittsburgh. That's where her family (correction: her mother) lives. Okay, that makes sense, two days with her mom being as much as she can take.

He's casually scrolling down the rest of the email when doubt strikes suddenly and viciously: listed after the circle flight for herself and Rachel is a round flight to Pittsburgh for ... Mr. Lucas Douglas. His hand stills on the mouse as he fights against the bile rising up in his throat. Is this a filial visit to an ageing parent, or is this a mini-break to celebrate a major event in the life of Lisa Cuddy? It needs little imagination to reconstruct the nature of that event: after the conference Lucas will join Cuddy and Rachel in Pittsburgh to be introduced to her family as her new fiancé. The question is whether his visit is still on.

He leans back, waiting for his heart rate to normalize before shutting down her computer. More from habit than curiosity he fingers through the contents of her desk, seeking reassurance in the familiarity of the objects that meet his touch: a lipstick, a comb, a few coins, a spare set of keys, a soother (why not a lollipop?), her stethoscope, a pair of glasses (she wears contact lenses now, but she's kept them as a back-up option). Oddly, he **is **soothed - until his fingers encounter a padded envelope pushed well into the back of the drawer. He pulls it out slowly with a sense of foreboding; a memory surfaces of her voice saying amid the background cacophony of drills, pneumatic hammers and sirens, 'It's in my desk."

Although he needn't open the envelope to know what is inside, he can't help himself. He sits there for a long time, staring at the diamond blinking in the light of the desk lamp. Finally, he replaces the ring in the envelope and, on an impulse, slips it into his backpack. He switches off the desk lamp, wishing that the chorus of voices in his head can be switched off as easily.

There is, he tells the voices savagely, **one **diagnosis that matches all the symptoms he's observed - Cuddy's increasing withdrawal, Lucas's confidence about the engagement, the ring in the drawer. The engagement is still on. There's no zebra to spot here, not even a horse. There's just an ass, and that's one Dr Gregory House!

Wilson is waiting outside for him, leaning against his car. "He found a fifth of scotch," he volunteers, disapproval etched in his face. "Are you okay?" he adds, examining House's mien in the failing light.

House ignores his question, focusing on the former part of his utterance. "I hope you didn't let him take it. That's good scotch."

"House," Wilson remonstrates, "you can't drink on the job!"

"You got all pissy about your girl-friend picking me up from a bar, so I figured you'd prefer me to drink somewhere where no one is likely to pocket my car keys." The reference to the night Amber had her fatal accident shuts Wilson up, as intended. House knows he's overstepped an unspoken boundary, but he's beyond caring.

"God, why do I even bother?" Wilson turns away in disgust. He can't help turning back once more. "You know he'll tell Cuddy, don't you? God knows she's mad enough at you as it is."

Cuddy. The ring. Why the hell did he pocket the ring? If Cuddy finds out about it, she'll interpret all sorts of weird stuff into it. Everything he does after that - getting wasted, causing havoc in the hospital, pissing her off - will be interpreted as a reaction to her betrayal. As though he cares enough to make a fuss over it; hasn't he been expecting exactly this scenario? Doesn't he know and accept that she has a right to change her mind after caving in to some overemotional response to the night at Trenton? God, they'd done it before, after she'd lost that first crack baby she'd tried to adopt. They'd kissed in a moment of madness, and then they'd both got over it.

He digs the envelope out of his backpack and holds it out to Wilson.

"Here. Do you think you can get that to Lucas?"

Anger wars with curiosity, but ultimately Wilson takes the proffered envelope, peering inside unashamedly.

"It's ... they're engaged!" he says incredulously.

"Yeah." House scans the horizon, the parking lot, the silhouette of the hospital. He can feel waves of compassion rolling off Wilson and has to fight the urge to barricade himself in his car to escape drowning in them.

"Are you okay?" Wilson repeats his earlier question. The slight to Amber's memory is forgotten in the face of this calamity.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I've known for some time. But I won't be fine if Cuddy finds out I took the ring. So do me a favour and get it back to Lucas _asap_. Please," he adds as an afterthought.

"Yes, but won't he ..."

"He wants more intel from me. Tell him he can have it if he keeps this from Cuddy."

There! Let Lucas ponder on how House came by the ring. Let him wonder whether Cuddy confided her engagement to House, perhaps considering how to get out of it again. Let him lie awake in bed at night, trying to determine whether her reluctance to wear the ring is a matter of practicality or a subconscious rejection of its giver. He, House, will be damned if he loses any more sleep over this!


	3. Day 5 Part 2

_Antonio:  
Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?  
Sebastian:  
By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over  
me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps  
distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your  
leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad  
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.  
[Twelfth Night, Act II Scene 1]_

**May 20, 2010: Day 5  
**(Three days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_Five pm_

The ornate clock on the wall of the conference room, the steady tick-tock of its golden pendulum a constant reminder of time passing inexorably, chimes five times. Cuddy, impatient by nature and unused to idleness, has reached the point where she'd like to smash something, preferably the clock's glass case for reminding her that she's wasting her most precious commodity to no effect. If she leaves her lawyer's office now, she'll be able to drop in at the hospital (read: House) before rushing home to pick Rachel up. She has already texted the babysitter asking her to have Rachel ready to go at six sharp, so that she needn't put in a longer stop at home. Even so, she'll be cutting it tighter to the airport than she cares for.

Putting down the paper clip that she's been bending beyond recognition, Cuddy turns to her lawyer and gives him one of her business smiles. "I don't think he'll show," she says to Mr Rose, the law firm's junior partner. He looks up from the papers he is studying.

"I'm sorry, Dr Cuddy," he says with genuine concern. "I know how busy you are. I wouldn't have dreamt of asking you to come in at such short notice if the matter were not of such a serious nature. Needless to say, I never expected the young man not to turn up. He sounded serious and reliable on the 'phone."

They are interrupted by a knock on the door. Mr Rose's secretary pokes her head in.

"Mr Rose, a Mr Finch says he had an appointment with you at 4 o'clock. He's here now."

Mr Rose heaves a sigh of relief as he hoists his ample frame up from behind his desk. "Show him in, please."

Cuddy feels a nervous flutter in her chest. Ever since Mr Rose phoned her this morning, her mind has been spinning, her stomach churning, her strong will rebelling against a fate that threatens to snatch away her most precious possession just when she's stopped worrying about losing her and has begun planning a future for herself and her daughter. She's waited for ages to get this child, not qualifying for most adoption agencies because of her age and her family status, only obtaining it because chance brought its mother to her hospital and luck (or a merciful deity) allowed it to survive abysmal birth conditions. The past months were spent in the fear that her incompetence as a mother would result in her losing it again. (Others might not judge her so harshly, but she knows what a mess she is making of this parenting business: how she never seems to have enough time for Rachel, what a state her house is in, how little she knows about dealing with children ... the list is endless.)

Every step in the adoption process served to quench her fears a little and build up her confidence; with every bureaucratic hurdle that she took, she felt a little more secure, not only in her prospects of being allowed to keep Rachel, but also in her abilities as a parent, for surely someone would have put a stop to the matter and removed the child from her care if she were a complete cop-out as a mother? Yet now, a mere few weeks before the adoption is to be finalized, the goddesses of fate are intervening, tangling up the neat threads of the life she has spun for herself and threatening to cut one or the other altogether.

The secretary returns, behind her a young man, barely more than a boy. He's tall and gangly, handsome in a bland way with styled blond hair, clean-shaven cheeks and neat clothes; everything about him screams suburban preppy background. He has an endearing air of diffidence.

"Simon?" Mr Rose asks. "I'm Arthur Rose. We spoke on the phone." He shakes Simon's hand jovially. "In the interests of anonymity, we'll stick to first names. Simon, this is Lisa. Lisa, this is Simon, your child's biological father."

Cuddy smiles the kind of smile that doesn't make it beyond her upper lip.

Simon, stretching out a tentative hand (that she has every intention of ignoring), says, "I'm sorry I'm late. Traffic pile-up on ... " He peters out, studying Cuddy intently.

"I know you," he says. "You were at the hospital when Natalie ... you're one of the doctors there, aren't you?"

Cuddy blanches. She hadn't noticed Simon at the hospital, but that is hardly surprising as House's team had dealt with Natalie's friends. There is, however, no sense in denying the obvious.

"Yes," she replies. "My lawyer informs me that you are thinking of contesting the adoption." She doesn't do tactful small-talk unless she's trying to tickle money out of reluctant donors.

"Yes, Dr ...?" he looks at her questioningly. Cuddy hesitates. "Now that I know where you work, it'll be easy to find out, so you might as well tell me."

"Cuddy. I'm Dean of Medicine at PPTH." If he's to know who she is, she might as well try to cow him a little.

"Impressive," Simon says with just an undercurrent of mockery in his tone. Cuddy decides that he isn't **that **endearing after all. "I'm not sure that I want to relinquish all rights to my daughter, so yes, I'm considering challenging the adoption." He casts a wary glance at Mr Rose.

The subtext is clear. The brat is talking blackmail. Cuddy feels her hackles rise, yet on the positive side, this is something she can deal with. She's used to negotiating with people who want to rip her off fair and square, so she's fairly sure she can handle this immature amateur. She kicks into administrator mode.

She turns to Mr Rose. "Mr Rose, can Simon and I talk in private, please?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Mr Rose objects. When Cuddy doesn't back down, he shrugs in defeat. "Well, you are experienced enough in legal affairs to know what you are doing. But for your information, you'd do better …"

"Yes, I know," Cuddy interrupts him. Mr Rose leaves with a resigned expression on his face.

"Thank you, Dr Cuddy. I hope we can come to some sort of understanding without a long legal battle. I just want to get to know my daughter." His expression is innocent. What a cunning little viper! She needs to find out what his price is and then figure out how to avoid on-going blackmail with ever-increasing demands.

"Why now, after eighteen months?" she asks, raising a critical eyebrow. This is the chink in his armour, his lack of interest in his daughter to date. Ignoring her for over a year only to discover his paternal feelings just as she has settled in her new family will hardly impress the judge.

"What have you called her?" he asks.

"Rachel," she answers between pressed lips.

"Rachel," he repeats, his face softening. If it's an act, it's a well-done one. He's probably a member of the high school drama club.

"My parents were - still are - opposed to my taking Rachel. They feel I'm too young for such a responsibility.." He hesitates for a moment. "I assumed that I had no rights because Natalie and I weren't married, and my parents, well, they sort of let me believe that. But I'm not a minor any more and I can decide for myself now. So I want to know my daughter and I want her to know I'm her father."

"You don't need to contest the adoption to do that. We could ... agree on visiting rights," Cuddy suggests, mostly to see how he'll react to this peace offering.

"Once she's adopted, I lose all rights and am dependent on your good-will. I would prefer to have the right to see her, not to have to beg for it."

Cuddy rolls her eyes impatiently at this proof of his amateurishness; a professional con-man would know that her 'offer' marks the beginning of a bargaining session. She has offered him an opening that allows him to back down from his ostensible intention of contesting the adoption. In return, he is supposed to indicate what benefits he expects from her in return for acceding to her demands. Instead, he's wasting her time by professing his undying devotion to his unknown offspring. She decides that indiscretion is the better part of efficacy.

"What do you want, Simon?" she asks bluntly.

He is genuinely surprised. "I just said what I want. Contact with Rachel." His confusion gives way to understanding. "Oh, you thought I was trying to ... get money from you? Blackmail you? Oh, no, you'd never agree to that, and honestly, I don't need money, at least not ..." He falls silent, pondering something.

"If what you want is an opportunity to get to know Rachel, then going to court won't improve your chances. The judge is hardly likely rule in your favour, given your youth, your previous lack of interest in your child **and **its mother," here Cuddy raises her eyebrows censoriously, remembering Natalie's distress over his indifference to her during the last months of her life, "and the duration for which Rachel has been with me. The judge will rule in Rachel's best interest. So far, nothing you have said or done indicates that she'd be better served with you than with me. And believe me, if I have to go through the hassle of a court proceeding to be ruled Rachel's mother, I'll be so pissed off that I won't be amenable to any sort of informal deal on visiting rights any more. So, if I were you, I'd work on keeping me happy instead of risking alienating me with needless juristic foreplay."

"Ac-tually," Simon says, drawing the word out, "I've been making enquiries about the rights of biological parents. Recent rulings have been in favour of biological parents, especially if they had no opportunity to stake their claims when the child was put up for adoption. Seems that the judges think that the right of a child to be acquainted with its real father or mother trumps the adoptive parents' wish to raise the kid under the illusion that they popped it out themselves." He draws a hand through his hair in a gesture that reminds Cuddy of Wilson. "Look, Dr Cuddy, we can continue threatening each other or we can try to work something out that harms neither of us, but will ultimately benefit Rachel."

"How, exactly, is getting to know you going to be of benefit to Rachel?" It's an unwise remark.

Simon flushes. "Dr Cuddy, I know you can offer her more than I can: a big house, all the toys she wants, an expensive education. But I'm her father! If she comes looking for me later in her life and asks me why I abandoned her, what'll I tell her?"

The feeling of foreboding with which Cuddy went into this meeting is proving to be fully justified. Were Simon a mercenary, she would have sized him up in a jiffy and put him down in another, but here she's dealing with something that eludes the mixture of coercion, logical argumentation and rationalization that she applies to business opponents and rebellious staff members, a primal urge that she was unable to subdue in herself - the biological imperative to parent a child.

Cuddy swallows hard. This is the stuff nightmares are made of - she's had enough of them in the past eighteen months, variations on the theme of losing Rachel, but she's always comforted herself in her waking hours that they were only dreams and unrealistic ones at that. Now, when she wakes up at night panting and bathed in sweat, she'll have no such reassurance to help her go to sleep again. There is little doubt that Simon is serious in his mission and even less that he is capable of throwing a spanner in her works.

She rises abruptly. "I'm sorry - I have a flight to catch and I ... still have to pack."

"Dr Cuddy, can I see Rachel? Please!"

Cuddy tries for a semblance of her usual calm, collected manner. "We're off on a five-day trip. I suggest that our lawyers get in contact."

She turns on her heel and exits the room before Simon can have the satisfaction of witnessing her disintegrate completely. Thankfully, Mr Rose is not hovering outside - he's probably relying on her keeping her head and having the sense to drop in on him in his office before she leaves. She's going to disappoint him.

Safe in her car, she leans back and takes a deep breath. This beats her negotiations with Transatlantic Net hands down. Those were tough and the stakes were high - her job, no less, and the hospital's survival. But she'd been in her element, and when she'd nearly broken down and had sat in her car (as she's doing now), House had come and offered his own peculiar brand of support.

She vaguely considers returning to the hospital; she'd originally planned to do so anyway just to make sure he's truly over the worst of his break-through pain, but now she wonders whether he couldn't be the kind of motivator that he was then. But no; House doesn't do 'shoulder-to-cry-on' on demand. In fact, he doesn't go for that sort of thing at all. He'll point out the right path, not the comfortable one, and he'll catch her elbow when she trips, but he's more likely to jerk her roughly back onto solid ground than lift her gently. And while he may see the sense in supporting her endeavours to keep the hospital running and even gain a vicarious pleasure from her poker games with insurance giants or rich donors, there's little chance that he'll feel any sort of empathy for her struggle to maintain motherhood. The best she can hope for is that he restricts his comments to an evolutionary analysis as to why Simon is programmed to protect his biological offspring. But show sympathy at this setback or dispense moral support in the upcoming fight, when he's long doubted her parenting abilities and never made any bones about disapproving of Rachel's adoption? No way!

Cuddy leans forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel. Within the short space of three days her private life has turned from a well-ordered suburban dream into precisely the major fiasco that she'd promised herself she'd steer clear of ever since she consciously acknowledged that something about House exercises a strong, unhealthy pull on her. She stuck to her resolve for years (and when she didn't House pushed her away, so it didn't matter in the long run), only to have it crumbling and falling apart within a short space of twelve hours. Before that she had a challenging career, a lovely daughter and a fiancé who was loving, reliable and manageable. Now, three days later, her daughter is being claimed by a teen Rumpelstiltskin, she has exchanged her well-trained - she winces inwardly at the adjective, but there is more than a mote of truth in it - fiancé for an unpredictable, undomesticated, uncontrollable and totally insane boy-friend, while her job probably isn't worth the paper her contract is printed on. House won't hesitate to use their relationship to manipulate her at work if he thinks it necessary for a patient's well-being _or_ promises himself a personal advantage out of it _or_ is in the mood to screw with her mind. As the repercussions of his behaviour on her reputation have never deterred him before, they won't do so now. If he wastes any thought on that, he'll shrug it off as her problem not his, which was all very well in the past when she could defend herself against accusations of favouritism by pointing out his value to the hospital. It's an argument that won't carry any clout once it's known that they are in a relationship.

And all this for what? They haven't been able to carry on any sort of communication these past three days without getting bogged down in high-volume arguments, while any hopes she foolishly cherished that he will accept Rachel or at least put up an appearance of indifference to her were quashed in the bud the evening she brought Rachel along to his place - admittedly an unwise move, but she'd had no choice when the babysitter flatly refused to put in another hour of overtime.

The worst about it, she decides, is that **none** of it is his fault. He's had no hand whatsoever in the adoption melt-down nor can he be blamed if she throws herself head-along into a relationship that will probably incinerate her career - she's old and wise enough to be responsible for the consequences of her actions. It would be such a comfort if she could blame him, but in all honesty she is aware that she is the one who screwed up and showed yet again that she does not possess the qualities necessary for a normal, balanced private life. Hell, she couldn't even take proper care of House while he was struggling with breakthrough pain, because she was incapable of juggling the demands of job and motherhood while trying to get rid of her ex-fiancé. House may not be the realization of her mother's fairy-tale son-in-law, but she isn't exactly a great catch either - a woman who can't make enough time to give her sick boyfriend a few hours' undiluted attention in the first days of their relationship, an employer whose consideration for a disabled employee is so low that she allows, even begs him to exert himself beyond his capacity. (_Admit it, you were scared to be left alone at the site, making decisions that could mean life or death, without his expertise._)

She doesn't want to leave him for five whole days, not at the moment, but she can't get out of that commitment now; she's on a panel at the conference, the flight is booked and her mother, whom she dare not disappoint again, is awaiting her eagerly. Perhaps it is for the best - the five days will give her time to come to terms with the threat Simon Finch poses to her. She'll be less sensitive and hence far less likely to blow her top should House, who is bound to tickle the truth out of her, make insensitive comments about fate rescuing Rachel out of her Medusan clutches. No, she doesn't need his rationalizations or his ill-disguised satisfaction at the prospect of having more of her to himself and less that he needs to share with Rachel. He's going to have to deal with her priorities the way she'll have to live with his lack of respect for her job, his propensity for shutting her out, his inability to compromise in order to make this work.

She sighs as she starts the car and turns it down the route that leads to her new home. She can rationalize all she likes, but she's nowhere near as good at it as House is. When all's said and done what it boils down to is this: she's on the verge of combustion trying to accommodate her job to meet the needs of her family life (or maybe it's the other way round - sometimes it's difficult to tell). Adding a catalyst like House to the mixture will cause the kind of instability that precedes an explosion.

_

* * *

Malvolio:  
Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?  
Viola:  
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.  
Malvolio:  
She returns this ring to you, sir.  
[Twelfth Night, Act II Scene 2]_

_Eight pm_

Lucas stops outside the bar, letting his eyes roam over the parked cars along the road. Nothing suspicious there, nor among the passers-by. Squinting through the window into the ill-lit interior he spots Wilson sitting on a stool at the bar nursing a beer. Other than Wilson, the bar is still pretty much deserted, but other patrons are beginning to arrive. Lucas decides to risk it - it's a public venue, and although Wilson's request to meet him is unusual enough to arouse his suspicions, he doesn't really believe that the head of oncology poses a risk on the same scale as his devious friend.

He enters and slides casually onto the stool next to Wilson's. "Hey, Wilson."

"Hello, Lucas." Wilson catches the barkeeper's attention. "What can I get for you?"

"Lager, please."

They wait for Lucas's beer to arrive. Lucas turns to Wilson, favouring him with one of his good-natured smiles.

"I take it that this isn't a social get-together."

"No ... I ..." Wilson is visibly unhappy, a state that Lucas cherishes. This afternoon Wilson was gratingly superior in his attitude, every fibre of his being exuding his resentment: at Lucas's walking off with his buddy's love interest, at the pranking in the loft, at Lucas playing the 'I'm fucking the boss, so don't try to screw with me' card. "I'm to give you something."

He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and slides it tentatively along the counter towards Lucas. Lucas takes it gingerly - from the way Wilson handles it, it might just contain anthrax -, pries open a corner and peers inside.

He's dimly aware of a couple in a corner booth laughing, glasses clinking behind the bar, soft jazz riffs drifting from the loudspeakers overhead.

When Lisa told him it was over _(a sad smile, a soft hand on his cheek, a gentle kiss),_ he moved his things out at her request _(everything was ready and packed in neatly labelled boxes; her handwriting - 'shirts', 'CDs' - stares at him in his bachelor's pad now)_, but it didn't seem **real**. Jeez, he hadn't done anything wrong nor had she complained about anything - well, not recently. Things were proceeding naturally: they'd found a house together, she'd hinted at marriage so he'd proposed, she'd **seemed **delighted and he certainly was. Lisa's sudden turnabout shocked him; if she'd been nourishing second thoughts about the major step of getting married, he'd have understood and talked her through it, but she seemed to doubt everything they had. After the initial shock receded, he told himself that maybe she didn't mean it. She was just panicking, succumbing to the stress at work and the pressure the adoption process was putting on her. He hoped she'd have fun at the conference, recuperate at her mother's place (where he had planned to accompany her to get her family's blessing) and come back relaxed and invigorated. That would get her perspective readjusted.

This spurt of optimism was reinforced when she didn't return the ring - that had to mean something. His dormant fears that this has something to do with House were also dissipated: Lisa's movements are accounted for practically twenty-four hours per day - she's either been at the hospital or with Rachel - none of his neighbourhood contacts have seen the slightest sign of House's bike or car around her neighbourhood. His sources from the site and at the hospital are unanimous in their opinion that House screwed up big time with his boss during the course of that crane disaster night, so if this **is **House's fault in any way, then his transgression lies in provoking her so badly that she decided then and there to stay clear of **all **men from now on. If that is the case, then Lucas feels sure that he can convince her to rethink her attitude or at least make an exception for him.

But now the engagement ring lies sparkling before him, courtesy of Gregory House MD. Did Lisa give it to House to return to him?

(_"Oh, Greg!" Swift kiss on sleep-tousled head. "I have to leave for the airport." Long legs disentangle themselves from rumpled bedsheets. "I really should return Lucas's ring."_

_"I'll do it for you, sweetheart. It'll be a _pleasure_!")_

Lucas resolutely shoves the unbidden image aside and glances sharply at Wilson, who has propped an elbow on the counter and is kneading the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger. He appears discomfited, ill at ease in his role as messenger. Well, so he should if he is a go-between for a smugly triumphant House, whose instinct for self-preservation doubtless stopped him from handing over the ring personally. As for Lisa …

Wilson finally speaks. "House would appreciate it if you kept this quiet and got the ring back to Cuddy discreetly."

Lucas's thoughts do such a rapid turnabout that the reverse motion nearly tips him off his stool.

_Right, don't shoot your mouth off_, he tells himself. _Slowly does it. So Lisa didn't give him the ring, which means that he took it. Which means ... _

"And why exactly should I not tell Lisa that her pet has been riffling through her possessions?"

"House is prepared to give you more information for your client in return."

"Not enough."

"Of course, he could also inform your client that you've blown your cover."

"Oh, okay, okay, okay! It's a deal. I'll get in touch with him."

Because much as this sounds as though all is well, that doesn't mean he can afford to lose Nolan as a client: the darn ring still needs to be paid for.


	4. Day 6 and Day 7

**Author's Note: **

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed or put me on their alerts. It's very encouraging.

**And here's a big hooray to my beta, Brighid45, who beta-ed half this fic in less than 48 hours. (Possibly less than 24 hours, but unlike her, I do sleep sometimes and don't check my emails then.) So, if you appreciate the rapid rate of updates, thank her by looking up her fics. They need to be read chronologically, so start with _Treatment._**

_

* * *

Malvolio:  
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?  
[Twelfth Night, Act 2 Scene 3]_

**May 21, 2010: Day 6**

(Three days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_11 am_

"What on earth are you doing?" Chase asks, poking his head into House's office.

"Getting into House's mind. You know:  
_Oh, oobee doo, I wanna be like you,  
I wanna walk like you, talk like you, too._"

Taub, seated in House's chair, doesn't move his eyes from the screen as he sings.

Foreman, leaning casually against one of the bookshelves behind him, observes, "You're late."

"I informed House. It looks like you're hacking into House's account." Chase frowns slightly, shaking his head at so much foolhardiness.

Taub corrects him. "We're not. He didn't log out,"

"So you're **snooping **around in his account." Chase doesn't think that House, while a stickler for such niceties when it isn't his privacy that is being invaded, will react any less explosively when he finds out what his fellows are up to.

"He's bookmarked some very interesting sites. **Anatomically **interesting sites," Taub says. His voice has a hitherto seldom heard dreamy quality.

Foreman snorts, trying for a mixture of disapproval and indifference, but he can't help casting an occasional glance at the screen. Chase, interest piqued, drops his bag and joins them.

"Oh, whoa!" he exclaims. "How the frigging hell does he circumvent the hospital firewall?"

"Look at this one," Taub says, calling up another bookmarked site.

Chase leans over his shoulder to get a closer look. "No way! There's no way she can be doing that. The hip joint doesn't allow you to get into a position like that."

"It's cool, though, even if it's digitally manipulated." Taub's voice is wistfully.

"It's hot!" Chase corrects.

"What's hot?" Thirteen enters the office.

Foreman clears his throat in embarrassment and moves away from his prime viewing position, but the other two have no such scruples. Taub flicks the screen around so that Thirteen gets a glimpse.

"Here - some girl-on-girl action. We were discussing, ahem, whether their gyrations are anatomically possible."

"Oh, a purely medical debate," Thirteen mocks. "I say it's possible. House'll eat your balls if he catches you surfing on his account."

"He won't know," Taub shrugs. "We'll delete the browser history."

"He will know," Thirteen counters. "He knows already. The webcam is on."

"Oh, shit," Chase mutters. "How come you notice these things and we don't?"

"Since I don't have a dick, my blood doesn't bypass my brain in its favour every time I see tits and ass."

Taub turns the screen back and pulls up the next site.

"Are you suicidal?" Foreman asks.

"Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb," Taub mutters.

"Taub can't do this at home, so he does it here," Chase surmises.

Taub throws him a dirty look. "There, now the webcam is off. Satisfied?"

Wilson walks in, but stops short when the sounds coming from the computer alert him to what the fellows are up to.

"You," he says with an all-encompassing sweep of his arm, "are disgusting! Is this **all **you can think about?"

House's fellows stare at him. Foreman raises a supercilious eyebrow. "Come, man, you must be used to this. You lived with House for a year."

"This is not about porn!" Wilson practically yells. He paces speechlessly running a hand through his hair.

"Are you okay?" Chase asks, genuinely worried. Wilson seldom loses it with anyone but House.

"Oh, **I'm **okay. But have you stopped to wonder whether House is?"

"House is fine," Taub pronounces.

"He's a lot better than yesterday," Chase adds. "Pain's almost gone. He's even doing clinic duty."

"And that doesn't strike you as ... odd? He lost a patient, after which he was in terrible pain, yet he came in to work as though nothing was wrong. As a result he misdiagnosed the next one and would have lost her too, if Taub hadn't been there last night."

"That's why he made Taub stay the night, isn't it. To make sure that he doesn't lose a patient because of a mistake," Foreman says reasonably.

"He should just have run the bloody tests, as he would have if he'd been up to his game."

Foreman drops all attempts at humouring his boss's friend. "He ran the tests. They were inconclusive."

"And the new patient has mysterious, inexplicable symptoms," Wilson says sarcastically, gesturing at the whiteboard. The others follow the sweep of his arm with their eyes. The list of symptoms is admittedly rather innocuous, which is why House's fellows have few tests to run and a lot of time on their hands.

"We-ell," Taub says, "it wouldn't be the first time someone developed odd symptoms **after **becoming House's patient. Maybe he sensed something in this patient."

"Whom, I assume, he didn't see. Furthermore, the case file smelled clean to me. This case isn't worthy of House's attention and you all know it!"

"I thought this is what you always wanted: House accepting that he isn't infallible and taking **all **aspects of his job seriously, not just the puzzles," Thirteen says.

"Yes, but there has to be a **reason **for this change. I'm worried, and so should you be!"

"You're his friend," Chase points out. "If you're so worried, maybe you shouldn't have tossed him out."

"I've put up with quite a bit. **None **of you would spend as much as an evening with him without getting paid."

"Oh, I would have," Chase grins, "but since you offered, I would have been a fool not to take your money."

"I wouldn't have," Foreman says point-blank.

"Well, you're an ass," Chase says without any heat.

Thirteen steers the conversation back onto track. "You're worried he's on something again."

"It would explain ...," Wilson says hesitantly.

"What do you expect us to do? Spy on him?" Foreman's tone expresses clearly what he thinks of that suggestion.

"We've checked his hard-disk. No vicodin there," Taub dead-pans.

"Oh, God!" Wilson shakes his head at them in exasperation and stomps out.

"Self-righteous prick!" Chase mutters.

"Go easy on him," Thirteen advises. "He's feeling guilty at ditching House for his girl-friend."

"He needn't take it out on us. Besides, a responsible adult should be able to coordinate a friendship and a new love interest. House isn't just anyone to him!"

"Holding onto House is tantamount to cheating on his girl-friend," Thirteen muses. At the others' expressions she laughs, saying, "What? Haven't you noticed how Wilson feels about House?"

"You mean they're ...?" Taub makes a crude gesture.

"I don't know about **that**. But Wilson's got the hunted look of a guy who's got the hots for another guy but won't admit it. He's pushed him away, yet he feels terrible without him; now he's looking for an excuse to pull him back in again. 'House relapsed' would fit the bill wonderfully. He wouldn't even have to admit to himself that he loves House - he can just pretend that House needs him."

"That's - disgusting!" Chase comments.

"What? Wilson being gay?"

"No. Wilson using House."

Thirteen shrugs. "It's what they both do. It's what we all do, isn't it?"

"I don't do that to my friends!" Chase objects. He looks round to the others for support. "Do you?"

"I didn't know any of us had friends," Thirteen says drily. The others grimace, but they don't contradict her.

"I still think Wilson needs his ass kicked," Chase says.

"I can handle that for you if you like," Thirteen offers.

"How?" Foreman enters the conversation for the first time.

She draws her laptop out of her bag, boots it and logs in. "Here," she says. "A medical forum with a sub-forum for gays and lesbians in healthcare."

"And Wilson is a member?" Taub asks doubtfully.

"No, but House will be," Thirteen smirks, "in a moment. _Register_," she reads. "Okay. _Username_. What shall we take?"

"I don't think this is a good idea," Taub says darkly. "The last time I did something like this it backfired terribly."

"Grey Horse," Foreman suggests.

"Grey Horse? I like!" Thirteen smiles. "It sounds like House answering the phone when he's wasted. Should we add any personal information? Age, speciality? I don't think House would, if he were to register anywhere online."

"He'd lie," Chase says.

"Okay, we'll just leave it. Now a post in one of the threads. Let's see. No, wait, House would start a new thread." She taps her fingers on the table in thought.

"What exactly are we doing?" Chase asks.

"Committing suicide the hard way," Taub has shut down House's computer, but he's still sitting in House's chair. "Rachel will be glad to hear that I'm returning to plastic surgery."

"Don't be so negative," Thirteen says absently.

"Let her think; she knows what she's doing," Foreman advises.

Thirteen interrupts. "Here: _My bestest buddy is on the verge of his 4th marital disaster. We're fine so long as he's solo, but whenever he needs a fuck he pushes me out of his life and lets some needy bitch take my place. It's starting to get at me. We're both straight, …_"

Chase looks confused. "Hang on, I thought the idea was that they're not straight."

"They **all **say they're straight - it's like some ritual," Thirteen explains. "... _both straight, but I've been wondering about our relationship._ Okey-dokey, that should do the job."

"Huh?" Taub says. "Try picking up a woman that way, and you'll spend a cold and lonely night."

"He's not looking for a date, he's seeking advice, and you wouldn't believe how generous people are with that. Now I need to find Wilson."

Before knocking on Wilson's door Thirteen schools her expression into one of apologetic eagerness. She enters when she hears Wilson's "Come in!"

He looks up at her in surprise as she hovers uncertainly in the doorway. "What can I do for you?" he says coldly.

"I think I know why House is acting so strange," Thirteen says, "but I didn't want to say anything in front of the others."

Wilson thaws somewhat and gestures at the chair in front of his desk.

"When we were surfing through House's bookmarked sites, I noticed a site that I know. It's, umm, a medical forum for gay healthcare professionals. The others weren't interested because there were no pictures," Thirteen rolls her eyes in pseudo amusement, "but it fits in with some other things I've observed."

"You think that House is ... gay?" Wilson asks incredulously. "Look, I know there are rumours about us, but I assure you we've never ... I mean ... we're both straight!"

"Speak for yourself," Thirteen answers automatically. "Anyway, House seems to have doubts about himself. You remember when I took him to that lesbian bar a few weeks ago? I was all set for the usual offensive remarks, but he was genuinely interested, he didn't make any snarky or sexist comments, he didn't keep up a running commentary on potential girl-on-girl action and how he'd like in on that - he was **different**."

She waits for this to sink in, and then she hammers in the message. "I remember how confusing it was for me when I realized I wasn't straight. Everything I believed about myself, all those years of social conditioning, the ability to fit into the mould society had ready and fitting for me – pffft! It all went up in a puff of smoke. I felt like a freak. It must be so much worse for him; he's way older and he's always prided himself on his masculine image - you know, a boobs-and-ass man - so it's all the more difficult for him to accept his new sexual orientation."

"You think House is acting strange because he's …"

"Confused. Exactly." Thirteen gauges Wilson's response to her bait and decides that he is lured. "Check out the forum for yourself. It's got serious information about how to adjust to being gay in the medical world. It'll give you some idea of what he's facing." She picks up a pen and a post-it and scribbles the forum address onto it.

Wilson takes the post-it from her and examines it as though it could bite. Nevertheless, she can sense that he has swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. His fingers are twitching as though poised above his keyboard while his eyes slide to the screen of his computer. Smiling to herself, Thirteen quietly sneaks out of Wilson's office.

_

* * *

Duke Orsino:  
__Once more, Cesario,  
__Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:  
__Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,  
__Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;  
__The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,  
__Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune  
__But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems  
__That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 2 Scene 4]_

**May 22, 2010: Day 7**

(Five days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_4 pm_

A few lone notes, tentatively struck on the piano, drift out of the open window of Ward 6 over the grounds. They grow firmer, are joined by others - the left hand now chips in - and finally morph into a full-fledged tune, bluesy and heavy. The unknown player, Dr Nolan has to acknowledge as he sits on a bench enjoying the afternoon sun, is talented, too talented to be one of the present inmates of Ward 6 who haven't a musical bone between them. Besides, a quick glance at the group exercising in the yard tells Nolan that everyone is accounted for. Now one of his **former **patients ...

Nolan's heartbeat quickens slightly. Perhaps he's changed his mind and returned. It isn't his usual day, but it would be like him to announce his presence by 'borrowing' the key to the piano. Nolan rises to go inside, anticipation accelerating his movements.

When he reaches the door to the common room he peers through the glass pane in the door before entering. The figure seated at the piano with his back to the door is shorter than House and not as lanky while his hair is denser and uniformly brown. Nolan sighs in disappointment as he enters.

"Hello, Mr Douglas."

Douglas swings round. "Oh, hello. I was just killing time - I hope you don't mind. Nice instrument. Your inmates must appreciate it - if they can play, of course."

Nolan wonders whether he's imagining a slight stress on the last words. "My patients will be back soon, so if you don't mind?" He holds out his hand. After Douglas drops the key into it, Nolan closes the instrument, locks it and pockets the key. A deliberate provocation, he decides. The question is, why? The parallels to Greg in abilities and in bad-ass behaviour have not escaped his notice. The piano playing is an independent accomplishment, but what about appropriating the key from the nurses' room? Does Douglas recognize the similarities - has he observed Greg for long enough to adopt his idiosyncrasies - or are these behaviour patterns his own? If Douglas discerns the trademarks of House's conduct, why does he feel the need to rub his, Nolan's, nose in them? No sane person wants to be identified with a drug-addicted psychotic, which is what most people see in Greg. Maybe he identifies with his target the way Greg sometimes does with a patient.

He ushers Douglas into his office.

"So," he opens pleasantly, "what do you have for me?"

"There are deviations from normal behaviour patterns." Douglas says.

"Explain, please."

Douglas extracts a note pad and flicks it open. "He lived at Wilson's place for almost a year, but two weeks ago he moved back into his own apartment. It's said that Wilson asked him to leave. You heard of the Trenton crane disaster a week ago?" Douglas asks. Nolan nods. "House was at the site the whole night, attending to a woman who was trapped beneath the rubble. The EM technicians reported a major confrontation between House and ... his boss at the construction site that started off as a difference in medical opinions, but then escalated into something personal."

"And that's unusual?" Nolan asks, relieved. If the sum of Greg's misdeeds is a confrontation with Dr Cuddy then all's well in Houseland.

"Yeah. It seems that House has been kinda quiet and tame lately. **This **thing escalated to the point that the patient nearly died. Well, she died anyway, but it seems that was no one's fault."

He's now studying his notes industriously.

Nolan decides to probe. Does Douglas identify so strongly with Greg that Greg's conflict with Dr Cuddy affects Douglas's mood? "Any quotes?" he asks.

"Everyone was kinda busy, so no one took notes, but the general gist of, ah, Dr Cuddy's words was that House was a miserable lonely loser and that she'd had enough of him and his bullshit."

Was there a hint of _schadenfreude _in Douglas's voice?

"One of House's fellows, a guy called Chase, has a pool going on how long House'll last till he gets fired. Now that **is **unusual, because till now it's been general consensus at PPTH that House can do as he likes without getting the axe. That's changed, so he must really have pissed Dr Cuddy off in Trenton. What is also odd is that he's taking precautions to retain his job. Normally he relies on L .. Dr Cuddy to cover his ass; now he isn't. He returned to work two days after the disaster, although he was," Douglas quotes from his pad, " 'visibly in great pain', he's taking on cases he normally refuses and he's been covering his clinic hours this week."

Leaning back in his chair, Nolan stares at the ceiling. He'd like to toss a few ideas at Douglas, but patient confidentiality forbids that. The likeliest explanation for the information that Douglas has gleaned is that Greg, having relapsed before the Trenton crane accident, was confronted by Dr Cuddy in Trenton, who probably threatened to fire him unless he proved cooperative. House's relapse might have been a one-off - his compliant behaviour at work indicates this - but his situation is precarious. Losing his job would be the ultimate humiliation that could drive him back into a full-blown addiction.

"Dr Cuddy hasn't fired him yet?" Nolan asks. The longer she delays the matter, the less likely she is to carry through with it.

"She's been absent a few days. A conference. She's expected back in, let me see, three days."

There is something odd in the way he mentions Dr Cuddy. He pretends to check his notes, but Nolan can see that he isn't really looking at them. He has the information on his fingertips.

"Do you know Dr Cuddy?" Nolan asks casually.

Douglas looks at Nolan sharply. "I've seen her around the hospital. Forty-ish. Smart. Very attractive. They say House has the hots for her." The way he says the last sentence is **very **unattractive.

So he likes Dr Cuddy, too. Another very unfortunate similarity to House. The last thing Nolan needs is for Douglas to mess this up because he's more intent on tailing Dr Cuddy than keeping an eye on Greg.

Time is running out, his next patient probably twiddling his thumbs in the waiting room already.

"Is there any evidence that Dr House has been procuring drugs?"

"No," Douglas admits. "He hasn't seen any physician or gone to any pharmacy other than the hospital pharmacy, nor has he contacted any known dealer. He's been going straight home from work without passing Go or collecting vicodin. The evening after the disaster, medication was ordered from the hospital pharmacy for House." Douglas hands a photocopy of the pharmacy logbook to Nolan.

"Anticonvulsants, muscle relaxants, a mild sedative. No opiates," Nolan observes.

"No, but I fished the vicodin bottles out of his trash a day later, so he probably took those at the same time."

"Alcohol?"

"He's got a stash in his office. If he's emptied any more bottles of Jack Daniels at home, then he hasn't taken them out with the trash lately."

"Dr Wilson?"

"He left work together with House yesterday, but they went their separate ways. It all seems amiable enough. His girl-friend has moved in with him and House is said to hate her."

On the one hand all this is not very reassuring, especially the coolness between Greg and Wilson and Greg drinking on the job. On the other hand there are no hard facts to support the theory that Greg is in a steep downward spiral. Indeed, if Douglas's assumptions are correct, then Greg is for once in his life actively engaged in preserving his job. That would be a definite improvement on Greg's fatalistic destructiveness. Previously, he'd push and push until something gave, covering himself with the debris of failure and strengthening his innate belief that he's hard-wired to screw everything up. In Trenton he's brought down more than rubble from the destroyed building onto his head, but if he is now prepared to dig his way out, then the process of the last year will not have been in vain.

Nolan considers whether having Greg observed was a wise move, the more so since Douglas makes him feel uneasy in a way he can't quite put his finger on. There is something about him that irritates him, like the buzz of a mosquito penetrating his sleep on a warm summer's night; there is some association that refuses to surface to his conscious thought processes.

Yet Greg is apparently in acute danger of getting fired. Nolan would like to see that danger banned before he takes any further steps, such as the inevitable one of informing Greg's employer that he isn't meeting the conditions for his employment any more. Should Greg have short-circuited Dr Cuddy to the point that on her return her main fuses are liable to blow, timely intervention on Nolan's part might prevent a total blackout for his former patient. Nolan debates intervening with Greg before Dr Cuddy's return, but knowing Greg, chances are that such an effort will be counterproductive. As far as he can make out, all of Greg's measures other than the alcohol are steps in the right direction. Should the situation between him and Dr Cuddy escalate, then that will be the right time to intervene, possibly with Dr Cuddy rather than Greg, pointing out to her what she may have failed to observe, namely the enormous rate of progress that Greg has been making.

From what Greg has said or implied, Dr Cuddy is quick to flare up, but as rapid in cooling down again. Even if she was bent on firing Greg after the Trenton incident, it is well possible that she'll return prepared to give him another chance. Once Nolan is sure that Greg's job is secure, he'll try to talk him into resuming his therapy with some other therapist, and then he'll let him go.

"Okay," he says aloud, "stop all surveillance of his personal life, please." Now that there is no hard evidence of a prolonged relapse, this is the least justifiable part of Nolan's interference and the aspect that will, if Greg ever finds out, cause most damage to the trust between them. "Restrict your activities to the hospital. Report to me when Dr Cuddy returns, please."

Pleased with the compromise he's made with himself, Nolan nods a dismissal at Douglas.


	5. Day 8 and Day 9

_Malvolio: [Reads]  
__'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I __am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some __are born great, some achieve greatness, and some__have greatness thrust upon 'em.'  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 2 Scene 5]_

**May 24, 2010: Day 8  
**(Six days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_4 pm_

"Taub, go out on the balcony and see what Wilson is up to," Thirteen instructs, "and try to be inconspicuous."

"I never go out on the balcony, so I'm bound to be conspicuous," Taub objects half-heartedly.

Thirteen reaches behind her into her handbag without taking her eyes off the screen of her laptop, withdraws a packet of cigarettes and tosses it to Taub. Taub looks down at the cigarettes and then up at Thirteen.

"I don't smoke. How is this supposed to help us?"

"I don't want him barging in on us while we check on our thread," Thirteen explains. "He's bound to smell a rat if he sees us congregating around a computer yet again. Wilson isn't stupid, you know."

"Taub, just get out there!" Chase, peering over Thirteen's shoulder, sounds impatient.

"Why me?" No one answers. Taub exhales, and then he goes outside and clumsily lights a cigarette.

"God, I hope he doesn't inhale," Chase says.

"He's at his computer... Now he's getting up and going to the door." Taub leans forward, craning his neck to get a better look. "He's locking it and - oh shit!" He pulls back rapidly, returning to an idle stance and staring out at the grounds. He takes a drag on the cigarette. "Now he's closing the blinds ..." The last words are drowned in a fit of coughing. Taub returns into the conference room, giving the others a baleful stare.

"Did you never smoke when you were younger?" Chase asks incredulously.

"No. It seemed kind of stupid. It ruins your health, costs a lot of money and it doesn't even give you a high."

"Yeah," Foreman agrees blandly, " a bit like cheating: it breaks your wife's heart, costs you alimony and you could have got the sex for free at home."

"Thanks," Taub says. "You sound like House."

"Guys, quit the sweet-talk. We have work to do. There are any number of posts on our thread and we have to answer them." Thirteen scrolls and clicks busily, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. "Someone wants to know what Wilson's like."

"_About forty, a colleague,_" Foreman suggests, keeping it terse the way House would.

"Appearance," Thirteen prompts. "How about, _The sort women like: dark, handsome vulnerability!_"

Chase isn't satisfied. "Wouldn't House be snarkier?"

"Doesn't matter. Wilson is a starving trout - he isn't going to examine the bait before he snaps at it. Next question: is Grey Horse physically attracted to his friend?" Thirteen thinks for a moment, then, "_We don't do touchy-feely stuff. I've had some odd dreams._"

Foreman is somewhat sceptical of the whole procedure. "How do you know that Wilson will identify your sock puppet as House?"

"I'm going to casually toss out some personal information that should suffice to convince him. Here, there's a question asking what sort of stuff they do together."

Chase laughs. "That's easy. Movies, bowling, monster trucks, ball games - guy stuff."

"That's ambiguous," Foreman objects. "Lots of guys do things like that."

"It'll be the sum of intel from the answers that will disambiguate his identity," Thirteen asserts. She analyzes another post. "What makes him think his pal is straight? Okay, that's easy. _He isn't - he just thinks he is, but he spends aeons in the bathroom blow-drying his hair, he watches chick flicks, he likes musicals and sushi …"_

"**I** like sushi," Taub protests. Foreman arches an eyebrow.

"_Guess some know right away they're gay, some realize it along the way, and some need their noses rubbed in it,_" Thirteen types.

"He's going to catch that quote - he isn't dumb, as you pointed out yourself," Taub says.

"What quote?" Chase asks blankly.

"He won't," Thirteen says confidently. "Men think with their dicks when it's about sex."

"Thanks," Taub says.

Thirteen suddenly leans back, looking like the proverbial cat that's got in the cream. "Listen to this post: 'Maybe your friend is interested in you, but you aren't reading the signs.' Okay." She takes a deep breath. "O-kay."

The others crowd around her. She folds her hands and smiles expectantly at the others. "Name me some stuff that Wilson does when he hits on a new nurse."

Everyone throws in a comment. "Green tie ... he's got this weird smile ... it's not weird, it's kinda cute - lopsided ... cute, my foot! ... he bends over them; it looks protective, but it's invasive ... he listens."

Thirteen taps the touch pad of her laptop, and then she types briskly,"_I read them fine. He's got a green tie that he wears when he's hitting on a new floozie, he smiles at his women in a special lopsided way, and he'll be humming 'I'm Walking on Sunshine' when he's getting ready for a date (euphemism for getting laid) - he's got a nice baritone - but none of this is ever for ME."_

"Wilson hums 'I'm Walking on Sunshine'?" Foreman asks.

"I have no idea, but House hates the song. He smashed the cafeteria loudspeakers the other day when it was playing there. And he once said that Wilson singing in the bath sounds like a walrus with laryngitis." She thinks for a moment.

"You should suggest some things that Wilson should do to show his interest," Taub offers.

"Oh my, we know our classics, don't we?" Thirteen teases. But she types,"_I'd like him to call me by my first name and to be more assertive, instead of being a buddy and a complete push-over."_

"Don't overdo it!" Chase warns. Thirteen nods and logs off.

"So you think Wilson will ..." Foreman asks.

"Trust me, he will," Thirteen smiles.

"What if House actually **likes** the green tie, Wilson singing, and so on?" Chase asks.

"Then we'll have united two kindred souls," Taub intones solemnly, "and done mankind in general and PPTH in particular a great service."

_

* * *

Viola:  
__I pity you.  
__Olivia:  
__That's a degree to love.  
__Viola:  
__No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof,  
__That very oft we pity enemies.  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 3 Scene 1]_

**May 25, 2010: Day 9**

(Seven days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_10 am_

The next patient is a man in baseball cap, checked flannel shirt and sunglasses, reading a newspaper. Chase grabs the file from the clinic desk and walks over to him.

"What can I do for you?" he asks as he opens the file to check the patient history that the nurse on duty has hopefully taken down already. He looks up from the file at the man sitting before him and frowns, not bothering to hide his dislike.

"Diagnose me?" Lucas suggests.

Chase snaps the file shut and turns back towards the clinic desk.

"Hey! It's a free clinic, isn't it? You can't refuse to treat me. Boss lady won't like it!"

"You're wasting my time. You're here sounding people on House - yeah, the nurse told me that you've been snooping around! Boss lady won't like that either."

"Are you his puppy, snapping at people's ankles?" Lucas asks provocatively.

Chase's gaze is calm. "No, but I **will **guard him against snooping vermin." He pulls out his cell phone and texts a short message.

"Okay," Lucas says, his body language expressing his irritation as he rises and pushes past Chase.

When the doors of the elevator open on the fourth floor, Lucas is faced with Foreman and Taub. They throw each other telling glances before they move slightly apart, leaving a narrow corridor for Lucas to pass through. Lucas nods at them as he steps out.

"Hey, guys," he says with his usual cheer.

"House is waiting for you," Foreman tells him.

"If you're here to see him," Taub adds.

"Yeah, I am ... I mean, not really …"

"Then we can escort you out of the hospital," Foreman suggests.

"Or ask security to show you the way," Taub continues.

Lucas looks from one to the other. "You guys would be great in a comedy act, but you've got the wrong idea. House and I are just fine, we're okay, really, no stress at all!"

"Bestest buddies," Foreman says with no inflection whatsoever.

"Quite," Taub supplements. "You date the boss, and while she's away you just happen to drop in asking questions about House."

"Go ask him why he's paying me for tagging you on Fridays. Got a nice picture of you and that blonde nurse from pediatrics. Giving her a lift home, were you?" Lucas snipes. It isn't that long a shot given the knowledge he accumulated about Taub on House's behest two years ago. He has the pleasure of seeing Taub pale as he leaves him standing there.

* * *

After Chase's short phone call House sits in his office tossing a coin and keeping tally in his head. If Lucas is here in the hospital then _(heads)_ he isn't in Pittsburgh with Cuddy and the Cabbage Patch kid. Cuddy isn't parading her husband-to-be in front of her mother _(heads again)_ and getting her blessing for the union, despite the flight ticket she'd booked for Lucas. That and the ring left behind in the drawer means _(heads once more)_ that maybe he'd been a bit hasty in coming to certain conclusions. Cuddy tried to call him a number of times _(heads again - what happened to probability?)_, but he ignored the calls _(tails - probability is vindicated)_ until she finally gave up _(bother, tails again)_.

He supposes she'll be worried sick by now. Or, more likely, she's phoned Wilson to make sure he's okay _(tails the third)_, in which case she'll be royally pissed at having her calls ignored. He throws the coin up meditatively; chances are that she'll put it all down to his propensity to act like a jerk but _(tails once more)_ he'll still have to explain how and why the ring got back to Lucas. _(A draw so far.)_

He spins the coin on his desk, the smooth even motion calming him. His life doesn't follow the laws of probability, because he doesn't have an even chance. Faced with the need to explain his behaviour, or at least to apologize for it, he'll try to evade, only to be drawn into an accelerating vortex of needle-sharp mockery and feigned indifference to her hurt. Intending to deflect from the six-headed monster of jealousy that had possessed him to mistrust her, he'll indulge in his special brand of asinine cruelty that succeeds in pushing everyone away.

Damn, how did he manage to screw everything up so quickly? He wanted it to work, didn't want this melt-down. Oh, he knew that they didn't stand a realistic chance, but he assumed that they would break up over tension at work being carried into their private lives or his inability to fit into her family life or her inability to cope with the inevitable relapse. This, however, defies all logic. His judgement clouded by emotions, he misconstrued evidence, diagnosing their love as gangrenous and allowing for no other remedy than amputation when patience and proper nursing might have …

Can still save it, he decides. Cuddy isn't an advocate of long-winded explanations, apologies or in-depth analyses of his character. Unlike Wilson, her method of coping with his erratic behaviour is not to ask 'why' or 'whereof', but to yell at him and then get over it. If he tries to get things back to normal - whatever that may be - she'll probably write his previous coldness off as pain-induced, sniping at him overtly for being a jerk while covertly searching for some more appropriate pain-management regimen, combating her guilt at leaving him alone in Princeton while he still needed her care by giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He gets out his cell phone and speed-dials her number. A polite female voice informs him, "The number you dialled is unavailable." That's all - no request to leave a message on voice-mail. She's switched off her phone and disabled voice mail. Is she avoiding him or the hospital? He debates phoning her mother's land line, but seeing Lucas approach along the corridor he puts away the phone and swings his feet demonstratively onto his desk.

Watching Lucas prowl around his office he can't help admiring his unflappable self-confidence, not to say cheer, in the face of personal disaster.

"May I?" Lucas asks, indicating the trash bin.

"Go ahead."

Lucas pulls out a large plastic carrier bag and tips the contents of the bin into it. "I wish you'd call your guard dogs off," he remarks. He then looks pointedly at House's feet on the desk.

"What?" House says.

"I'd like to go through your drawers," Lucas says with the angelic patience of a good parent dealing with a stubborn child.

"Wouldn't want to discomfit an old cripple, would you?"

"Okay, then I'll start with your backpack," Lucas says easily.

House can see why Cuddy would consider him good father material: childishness and obstinacy don't faze him. House hooks his cane into one of the straps of his backpack and pulls it towards himself, away from Lucas. Lucas straightens and regards him through narrowed eyes.

"We have a bargain," he points out. "You let me do my job in peace and I don't rat on you to Lisa."

House blows up his cheeks to let the air out in little pops. "That little soap-bubble has burst, though, hasn't it? All I did was accelerate the Return of the Ring to its rightful owner - a bit presumptuous, I'll agree, but hardly the stuff of blackmail."

Lucas stills. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're here while she's with her mom, and she isn't wearing the ring. The engagement is off."

"Her dad's death anniversary. An intimate family thingy, all tears and fond memories, I'd have been in the way. Big mouth, never know when to keep it shut - you know the sort of thing."

"What, the fresh-out-of-the-mint fiancé, the fulfilment of Grandma Cuddy's dreams, the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to put Sister Juliet's nose out of joint? No way Cuddy voluntarily opted out of that. Besides, you have a flight ticket, so you'd planned on going, but something changed at the last minute."

Lucas changes tack. "Okay, she called it off, but she'll come round again." There is an unexpected confidence in his tone that begs to be examined.

House takes his feet down, props his elbows on the desk and musters the young man intently. "You overestimate your powers of attraction. Cuddy isn't **that **desperate."

Lucas sits down opposite him, his gaze as hard and intense as House's. "She may not have much of a choice."

"No?" House leans back comfortably, his hands clasped behind his head.

"Sweet," Lucas says. "You waiting around for a whole year like a love-struck teen, thinking that if you buckle up ... oh, that's why there's been nothing in the trash since those two bottles, and I bet you didn't even take those. How touching: Greg staying clean for his Lisa!"

House's innate aversion to physical violence fights with the desire to wipe Lucas's complacent smirk off his face. Lucas is clever enough to sense some of the pent-up aggression he's provoking. He stands up. "You think now that she's free you can step in. Sorry, but that won't work."

House fights to hide the tension that Lucas's jibes have induced. "No? She ... likes me."

Lucas guffaws. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Never have, if you'll remember. Doesn't mean she wants to **be **with you."

That opens a recent wound, the one left by her, 'I love you. I wish I didn't, but I can't help it.' If she **could **help it ...

"And even if she did," Lucas continues remorselessly, "she can't afford to. If she gets involved with you, she'll lose the kid."

"The kid's adopted," House interposes.

"Legally she isn't adopted as yet. Officially Lisa's still fostering. The father is not only contesting the adoption, but also claiming custody."

"What, some teenage brat ...," House grouses.

"He's not a teenage brat any more, he's a major. Without his consent there'll be no adoption. As for custody, he's of age, in his right mind and the biological parent. Lisa is over forty, single and a full-time working mom. She's going to need every ounce of respectability she can muster to combat such a claim. Believe me, marriage to a solid, dependable young man the right age to be Rachel's father might just do the job. But an on-and-off relationship - or were thinking more along the friends-with-benefits line? - with a delusional addict will ruin her chances of convincing the judge that she can offer stability. And other than stability, what can she offer to outdo the child's biological father?"

Lucas's words are barbs aimed at stinging House, but House brushes Lucas's contempt aside. It's the truth behind his words that wrenches his guts. If things stand as Lucas says, if Cuddy needs respectability beyond what her job has to offer, then he's the last person to be able to provide it. He's no trump card at the best of times; if the game gets tight, then having him on her hand is a heavy liability.

House scans Lucas's face, looking for some sign that this is just another bluff, like his pretence that the engagement is still on. Lucas's mien, however, is unreadable.

"Gimme proof that the boy is suing for custody and ...," the words stick to the roof of his mouth, "I'll back off."

Lucas snorts. "I'm not sure I consider you competition enough to bother." Something in House's eyes makes him change his mind. "But you can have all the proof you want. Do us all a favour though. Back off and stay off. This is tough on Lisa as it is. Don't make it worse for her. Asking her to choose you is asking her to give up the kid. If you love her you won't do that."

House knows when he's being manipulated, but that doesn't make what Lucas is saying any the less true. It's a risky game that Lucas is playing, admitting that Cuddy is attracted to House, but appealing to House's better nature not to take advantage of that. How many people in the world believe that House possesses enough decency to respect other people's needs?

"It doesn't bother you that she'll marry you for the parasite's sake?" he asks. He may respect Cuddy's feelings, but there's no need to go easy on Lucas.

"She ... likes me, too," Lucas quotes back at House. "Let's not kid ourselves. Men will always range way behind the hospital and Rachel on Lisa's list of priorities. Besides, she wasn't all that enthused about you even before the kid came along... I'll drop in with a copy of the boy's custody application as soon as possible." With that he turns and exits, leaving a pensive House behind.

_

* * *

Sir Andrew:  
__No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.  
__Sir Toby Belch:  
__Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.  
__Fabian:  
__You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 3 Scene 2]_

_Noon_

Taub moodily pulls his napkin into strips.

"Do you want your fries?" Chase asks.

Taub silently pushes his plate over to Chase. "I think I'll resign," he says suddenly.

"Why would you do that?" Foreman asks.

"House is messing around with me. Now he's paying that creep to tail me. I took this job to save my marriage, not to ruin it."

Chase and Foreman exchange glances. Chase toys with the fries, pondering on the wisdom of offering unsolicited advice. If he stuck his neck out too far, someone would point out that people whose marriages didn't make it to the first anniversary should get a glass breakage insurance before proffering marriage counselling.

Foreman has no such scruples. "I think that blonde nurse poses a greater danger to your marriage than the PI."

But like most people bent on a course of destruction, Taub is deaf to the voice of reason pointing out his own culpability. "It's absolutely none of House's business. He pokes his arrogant nose into my private affairs and uses the information he gathers to put me under pressure. I should quit before he opens his big mouth in front of Rachel."

"House won't want you to leave," Foreman points out. "He'll get you back, even if it means blackmailing you, and then you'll be in a worse position than before."

"Make it clear to him that you'll work for him, but that you won't put up with his nosiness," Chase suggests. "I did, and it works."

"You think I should sock House on the nose?" Taub enquires sarcastically.

Foreman musters Taub with a wry smile. "Maybe not. But you'd make your point if you took on his PI. There's no love lost between them, so House won't take it personally, but he'll get the message."

"Good idea!" Chase says enthusiastically.

Taub's mouth twitches. "Contrary to what you may believe, I do not turn into a green hulking mass of muscles when I tear off my lab coat. I stay short, bald and flabby. Just what do you gain if I end up a patient of this hospital, other than the pleasure of taking my place as errand boy?"

"You'll be fine," Foreman reassures him. "Half of what he's up to is illegal, more than likely. You accost him and threaten to sue him, and he'll buckle under like …"

"Like a log bridge under a tank," Chase supplies.

"Oh, very well," Taub mutters. His cell phone rings. He checks the caller ID furtively and hurriedly excuses himself.

"Tweedledum and Tweedledee's battle?" Chase muses.

Foreman shakes his head. "Taub won't do it. You saw how scared he was. That's not to say that I'm not in favour of putting a damper on Cuddy's boy-toy. Even if he isn't spying on us again for House, there's no knowing what information he's carrying back to Cuddy. It might not be a bad idea for us to support Taub in this, so that Lucas learns to stay away from the team."

"So we do what?" Chase asks.

"We force a confrontation between him and Taub. Then we see how it goes."

"Uh, I'd put my money on him rather than on Taub."

"So would I - no, forget it, Chase, I didn't mean that literally - but he'll think twice before messing around with you or me once he realizes that being the boss's love interest won't protect him."


	6. Day 10 Part 1

_Antonio:  
__I could not stay behind you: my desire,  
__More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 3 Scene 3]_

**May 25, 2010: Day 10  
**(Eight days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_3 pm_

Pushing Rachel's stroller, Cuddy follows the signs to the baggage claim at Philadelphia International Airport. The flight was delayed, but luckily she and Rachel are among the first to disembark - on of the upsides of travelling first class with a child. Now if she can just grab their suitcases and leave, perhaps she can make it home before Rachel disintegrates and throws a wobbly. The down flight to Seattle was traumatic - in future she'll pay more attention to flight departure and arrival times and make fewer optimistic assumptions such as the one that toddlers enjoy flying or that she is capable of keeping Rachel amused and distracted on 'short' inland flights.

It doesn't help that she's run the gauntlet the past two days at her mother's place. Granted, her father's death anniversary had been fraught with emotion both previous years, but this year her arrival without the much-vaunted Lucas caused a minor cataclysm. Her mother flatly refused to believe that it was over.

_"Don't hesitate to bring that young man of yours with you the next time you come, Lisa."_

_"Mother, I told you it's over!"_

_"I know, I know, but I'm sure everything will work out somehow. You were dating for so long, and Juliet says he's such a __**nice **__young man." Mrs Cuddy held her daughter at arms length. "I don't know what happened and I'm sure it's none of my business, but Lisa, family life isn't always easy. Don't give up at the first signs of a storm. Storms pass, you know."_

_Cuddy sighed. "Mom, it isn't that. Nothing happened. He just wasn't - the right one."_

_"'The right one'? Lisa, what sentimental nonsense is this? I always believed that you were the level-headed one. He's prepared to put up with your career, he accepts Rachel - neither of which every man would be prepared to do - and he's respectable. What more can you ask for?"_

_Cuddy was silent. There was no sense in going into this or trying to explain something she hardly understood herself. All she knew was that there was nothing sentimental in breaking up with Lucas; it would be madness to marry him, and grossly unfair to him too, when she was obsessed with House. If anything, it had been sentimental to believe that she could implement her dream of a family by sheer will power._

_"Giving you advice is a complete waste of time, as usual," her mother said shrewdly. Then with a big sigh, "I had so hoped that you'd settle down, if only for Rachel's sake."_

Her sister, who usually disguised her disapproval with backhanded compliments ("I admire your courage, Lisa, wearing that dress at your age."), was disarmingly open: _"Too bad, Lisa. He's so friendly and funny. You won't find someone like him again, not with your attitude."_

Her brother-in-law, quite the advocate for women's rights and liberation: _"Not surprising, really. You __**do **__know that guys find your aggressiveness a bit of a turn-off?"_

It had taken all of her self-control and a continuous mantra-like muttering of, "Do this for Dad's sake and for Rachel's!" to stop herself from re-booking onto the next flight home.

The baggage carousel for her flight is still deserted. The signboard proclaims that the baggage is being unloaded, whatever that may mean. Cuddy parks the stroller and fastens the brakes, and then she digs a rusk out of her bag. Rachel gurgles in appreciation. Next Cuddy takes her cell phone out and switches it on.

"You have 65 unread messages."

Great! Five are from the hospital, the others from Lucas. She deletes the ones from Lucas. Sixty messages in less than five days - that's sad. And creepy. She switched her cell phone off twenty-four hours out of Princeton to put an end to Lucas's incessant phone calls, but it appears that she'll need a new number.

No message from House. She'd tried to call him on his land line, his cell phone and in his office, but he didn't take her calls. After checking with the nurse, whom she'd hired for the whole week just to be on the safe side, to make sure that he hasn't ended up in the ER ("He threw me out, my dear, but he was fit enough to escort me to the door, so I'm sure he's fine now") and after thirty-six hours of being ignored she'd given up.

After all, it isn't as though they officially have anything going. **She's **expressed her interest, but other than a few tentative kisses that first morning he hasn't said or done anything to indicate that he reciprocates her feelings in any way. She assumed that because he wooed her with varying degrees of intensity the past year, he was interested in a relationship. But House is House, a hunter, not a cultivator. Like a little boy intrigued by a wild animal, he pursues it, firmly believing that ensnaring his prey will lead to some form of satisfaction. Yet now, with his victim caught in his net, he doesn't know what to do with it. Should he take it home and domesticate it? He'll have to feed it regularly (what the hell does it eat?), figure out what care it needs, clean its cage or pen - in short, be responsible for it. No, it's better to release the poor beast, beautiful and fascinating though it is, than to risk killing it due to negligence or ignorance.

Cuddy smiles sadly. She can, off-hand, name at least five reasons why a 'something' between House and herself is a bad idea for both of them, reasons so good that despite the undeniable attraction, the sizzle and the sparks, the banter and the mind sex, they have always skirted around one another, but have never got involved in those ten years since Stacy's departure. There was always an invisible barrier between them; whenever one of them came close to violating it, the other drew back elegantly in that complicated dance that ensured their mutual protection. Ultimately, Amber's death and Wilson's subsequent desertion destroyed House's inner balance, while she, distracted by her futile attempt to adopt Joy, missed the one or other step.

Wilson's desertion then and his rejection of House in favour of Sam now, those are the keys to House's erratic behaviour. She'd almost forgotten that he's as much on the rebound as she is. His feelings for Wilson are no less deep and sincere for not being tinged by _eros_; compared to her feelings for Lucas they can claim greater duration, are based on intellectual equality and mutual interests, and are refined by the tribulations that both faced together over the years: Wilson's divorces, House's infarction and subsequent addiction, Amber's death. Small wonder, then, that Wilson's preference for Sam, albeit temporary, had House sufficiently fazed to drive him into her arms during those crazy, dimly-lit night hours in the aftermath of the Trenton crane disaster. In the calm, cruel light of day he probably realized the perils of their position and began back-pedalling for all he was worth.

Needless to say, her actions were not of the kind to reassure him. She invaded his privacy when he was in pain, her concern for him overriding one of the many taboos that determine their interactions, namely that it is House alone who decides whether his pain is an issue to be discussed and dealt with or not. He must hate her for encroaching on him like that, her behaviour so reminiscent of Stacy overriding his decision. That she was worried silly on seeing his agony (the fear of further stashes of vicodin always at the back of her mind) is an explanation for her actions, but not an excuse, not in **his **eyes.

She topped it off by encroaching on his personal space, another very touchy issue. They have their own rituals that allow them to touch, something that he'll allow no one else: he'll move to within inches of her so she can push him away, or she'll drag him somewhere by his arm like a recalcitrant schoolboy, or she'll pat his arm in passing, but even that is invariable registered and filed away for future contemplation. Yes, she's managed to sneak in the odd gesture (just as he cops the occasional feel), clasping his hand as he lay semi-conscious after the bus accident two years ago, but the operative word here is 'semi-conscious', a condition in which he could pretend to be oblivious to her presence and neither needed allude to it afterwards.

And what did she do? She added insult to the injury of trying to administer to his pain by 'mothering' him, stretching out her hand to feel his temperature. She flushes at the memory of House flinching away from her, pushing her away, back over that unseen line that she thought they erased after the fateful night in Trenton. Now it is back with a vengeance, House's ominous silence of the past days presaging that he is busy fortifying it with a high, high wall.

"Dr Cuddy?"

Startled out of her musings, she looks up.

"S - Simon," she stutters.

"May I?" he asks, gesturing to the bench on which she is sitting. He waits for a moment, but Cuddy is too flabbergasted to do anything but stare at him open-mouthed, so he sits down. It is only when he greets Rachel with a shy hello that she finds her voice.

"Simon, what are you doing here?"

"I was passing by, so I thought I'd meet my daughter," he replies without taking his eyes off Rachel. They are moist, the expression on his face soft and open; under normal circumstances Cuddy would consider this a touching sight indeed. As it is, she can't help pitying all the girls who, like poor Natalie, are taken in by this viper in human guise. Cornering her in the baggage claims area of the airport is the move of a mastermind.

"If you don't leave, I'll call security."

"I have a legitimate reason for being here. I'm doing a report on airport security for a school project. I've got a pass."

Short of seeking cover in the ladies' room there is no way she can escape him.

"Here, I've got something for you," Simon says to Rachel, taking a wrapped package out of his backpack and putting it into her lap. Rachel reaches for it, her expression changing from suspicion to curiosity, and paws clumsily at the wrapping paper. She looks expectantly at Cuddy, who sighs and reaches out to help her daughter.

"Simon," she says as she tugs at the scotch tape, "I can understand that you want to see Rachel and it's admirable that you care so much about her, but you can't pounce on us without prior warning."

The wrapping paper comes off, revealing a bright yellow wooden duck with red wheels and a string for pulling it.

"She can walk, can't she?" Simon asks as Cuddy makes no attempt to take Rachel out of the stroller.

"Ummm, no."

"Oh. In the shop they said …"

"She's a bit behind," Cuddy cuts him short. "Look, I'm sure the court will schedule a hearing in a few weeks. If then you still wish to challenge the adoption and insist on visiting rights, we'll let the court rule on that. Until then, I suggest you stick to the rules. Don't you see that you'll be doing your case no favour by imposing yourself on us like this? That's what visiting rights are for: to provide a frame within which both parties can act without infringing on each other's rights."

"I'm not 'infringing on your rights'. I just want to see her - and I don't want to wait a few weeks or possibly months." He takes the duck and pushes it to and fro on the ground in front of Rachel, who giggles in delight. "I'm applying for custody, Dr Cuddy. If I win - and my lawyer tells me I stand a good chance - then she moves in with me. Don't you think it would be better if she got to know me before she's put in my care?"

" ... You're suing for custody?" Cuddy repeats. How could she think even for a moment that his attention to Rachel is touching?

"Yeah. She's my daughter. She should be with me."

The baggage carousel starts turning.

"Right." Cuddy leans back. The first time she met Simon she was caught off her guard, but this time she's primed and ready to fire. "Do you truly believe that you're the best person to handle a toddler?"

"No, but …"

"This parenting business is not as easy as it looks."

Simon snorts. "Do you think that's an argument that should put me off? If it did, you'd be right and I'd have proved myself unfit to be her father. Millions of young girls in my position cope; Natalie would have coped if she'd lived. I didn't do right by her, but I'll do right by our child."

"It's not that simple," Cuddy tells him, tugging nervously at her pearl necklace. "There are ... health issues, I'm afraid. Rachel was hypoxic after birth - that means she got too little oxygen. Since she wasn't born in a hospital, she wasn't treated as she should have been."

Simon looks unimpressed. "And that means?"

"She'll never be like other children," Cuddy says slowly.

Rachel chooses that moment to toss the wooden duck from her lap onto the ground, where it lands with a resounding crash. Rachel bawls at losing her toy; heads turn their way. Simon picks the duck up to return it to her, and Rachel thanks him for it by repeating the procedure. Cuddy, her nerves already at breaking point after the effort of keeping Rachel's noise level at an endurable level during the flight, decides that the bearer of such unsuitable gifts as wooden ducks - there should be laws prohibiting toys that aren't soft and squishy or that can make a noise - can jolly well see to it that Rachel injures neither herself nor others.

"If you insist on returning it to her whenever she chucks it out of the stroller, then hang onto it with one hand so that she doesn't injure someone!" she barks at Simon.

Simon chuckles. "She seems fine to me, don't you, honey?"

Rachel, the little traitor, chortles at him. Cuddy catches sight of her suitcases with a deep-felt thankfulness. Simon rises politely and pulls the two small cases off the carousel for her, placing them on a trolley that he commandeers. He prepares to push it for her, but Cuddy tips her head in dismissal. She unstraps Rachel and, balancing her on one hip, she folds the stroller with the other hand and foot. The stroller joins the suitcases on the trolley and Cuddy, still cradling Rachel on her hip, takes the handlebars of the trolley and sets it into motion.

"Google cerebral palsy," she advises Simon over her shoulder.

"Dr Cuddy," Simon calls after her, "I can't stop you from taking Rachel with you, nor can I force you to allow me visiting rights before the hearing. But if I get custody for Rachel, how will you feel if you have to **beg **to be allowed to see her?"

_

* * *

Olivia:  
__How now, Malvolio!  
__Malvolio:  
__Sweet lady, ho, ho.  
__Olivia:_  
_Smilest thou?_  
_I sent for thee upon a sad occasion._  
_Malvolio:_  
_Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some_ _obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is, 'Please one, and please all.'_  
_[Twelfth Night, Act 3 Scene 4]_

_**5:30 pm**_

"Foreman, schedule an MRI. Thirteen, Chase, do a stress test. Short One, talk to the family and fill the gaps in the patient history. **All **the gaps this time around!" House casts an impatient glance at his watch.

"What about you?" Taub dares to enquire.

"I'm going home."

The team give each other significant glances. "Avoiding Cuddy?" Foreman guesses.

"Sure. She'll be so frisky after her mini-break from my cane that she'll jump me here and now without any consideration for the tender morals of our stripling here," House jerks his head at Taub, "so I'd better clear the field."

"What about the test results?" Foreman wants to know.

"I'm sure we'll see a tumour on the MRI, and then he's Wilson's. In the very unlikely event of my being wrong, on the one-to-a-thousand chance that it is a heart-related issue or a genetic condition, you may phone me."

Chase doesn't bother to hide his annoyance. "So we're sacrificing an evening off for a one-in-a-thousand chance?"

"Heart condition was your suggestion," House points out. "Either you believe in yourself, in which case you'll gladly spend the half the night here proving me wrong, or you've been serving me bullshit just for the sake of saying something, which means that you deserve to have your evening ruined."

House's cell phone rings before anyone can initiate further useless protests. He turns away to take the call, but makes no other effort at privacy. "Yes. ... Lucas? Have you got the goods? ... Where are you? ... Okay, go to the clinic, I'll pick you up there." He snaps his phone shut and turns towards the team again to find them staring at him with varying levels of dismay. "What?"

Taub has paled visibly. "You're meeting Lucas?"

"Is that any of your business?" House snaps.

"Depends," Taub says.

House stares at him with a mixture of annoyance and mystification, Before he can pursue this enigma, however, an incongruous sound drifts in from the corridor - cheerful whistling coming from the direction of the elevator.

"What's that?" House barks.

"'Walking on Sunshine'", Taub supplies helpfully. House turns towards him with a baleful eye. "An eighties hit by Katrina and the Waves."

"Were you even around in the eighties?"

"Like you, I was old enough to register the charts. Unlike you, I wasn't stoned enough to forget them afterwards."

"Believe you me, even completely stoned it is difficult to ignore this musical monstrosity," House gripes, but he grins appreciatively as he moves to the glass wall separating the conference room from the corridor and parts the blinds with his cane. Through the opening the occupants of the conference room are treated to the sight of James E. Wilson MD, resplendent in an emerald-green tie with a matching checked shirt, stepping along jauntily to the tune he is whistling, his body rocking unconsciously to the rhythm. A low murmur of anticipation runs through the team, rather like the rumblings of an subway train approaching a station.

"This," says House as he peers through the blinds, thus missing his subordinates' reaction completely, "is why that song should be banned." He whips around so quickly that the others jump in their seats. "Is there a new nurse, a lab technician, a resident - anyone I haven't heard about yet, other than the one Taub is ... driving around in his car, by which I mean not 'driving around in his car', but …"

"We get it," Taub interrupts, "but you're the one who normally hacks into HR, not us."

By this time Wilson is at the door, blushing slightly at the attention focused on him but completing the last two bars of the tune valiantly. Ever impeccably mannered, he greets the team before he favours House with a lop-sided smile.

House, for his part, eyes Wilson with undisguised contempt. "Let me guess. Sam has ditched you, so you're throwing yourself at some puppy-eyed nurse ... or maybe a physiotherapist?"

"Wrong ... and wrong," Wilson chirps. "I was wondering whether you wanted to grab a bite." He flashes another skewered grin at House.

Cocking his head slightly to one side, House musters his friend. "Nope," he answers with finality, "got other plans."

"Oh, come on, Hou ... Greg. You haven't got any plans other than getting plastered. And I'm **not **paying," Wilson adds with emphasis.

"You're not paying?" House repeats, now frowning as he advances towards Wilson.

"Nope," Wilson reiterates, the left corner of his mouth twitching. "**You **can pay today!"

"Be with you in a trice," House mumbles as he limps into his office. Wilson remains in the doorway rocking on his heels and humming happily.

"Nice tie." Chase is grinning from ear to ear.

"Thanks. I rather like it mys ..." Wilson registers Chase's expression and stops dead. Taub is avoiding his eyes, Thirteen's smile is ambiguous while Foreman looks unpleasantly like House when he's wrangled permission for a particularly risky procedure from Cuddy.

"Is there something I should know, about House maybe?" Wilson enquires.

After a short rummage in his desk, House finds what he's looking for. He comes back as fast as his leg will allow, grabs Wilson's chin and flashes a penlight in Wilson's eyes.

"Greg!" Wilson gasps.

"Foreman, schedule an MRI and a CT; Chase, blood work; Thirteen, organize a room for Wilson, close to here and with cable TV; Taub, go do whatever you're supposed to be doing."

Everyone stares at him.

"What are you waiting for? Go! Foreman, take him with you and do the CT at once!"

"What are we looking for?" Foreman asks.

House rolls his eyes. "Visual impairment," he flicks Wilson's tie, his voice rising," partial facial paralysis, confusion. And you ask me what we're looking for! Move along before his brain is fried!"

The fellows look at each other in consternation. Wilson splutters, "House, I'm not confused. I'm p-perfectly normal!"

"You call that 'normal'?" House yells. "Wilson, you …"

"House, we've got it," Foreman interrupts, giving the rest of the team significant glances. "You just go and take care of whatever you need to be doing just now, and we'll deal with Wilson."

"S-s-sorry?" Wilson, now somewhat disconcerted, is stuttering in earnest.

"I'm not leaving until ..." House protests.

"House, this'll be easier if you don't yell at him or at us. You're distressing him unnecessarily. I'll keep you informed."

House, stopped short by the implication that his presence might be harmful for Wilson, looks uncertainly from Foreman to Wilson. Then he nods abruptly and limps out.

"What?" says Wilson as Foreman and Thirteen advance on him.

"You heard House. He wants a CT, an MRI and full blood work."

"I. Am. Not. Having. A. Stroke," Wilson enunciates clearly. "I'm not going to spend the night going through useless procedures just because House is paranoid. I **told **you something is wrong with him, but you wouldn't listen."

"Wilson," Thirteen cuts in, placing a placating hand on his arm, "you're exhibiting certain symptoms."

"Symptoms? What symptoms?"

"You're whistling. And smiling. You're wearing a god-awful tie. You called House 'Greg' **and** you refused to pay for his dinner," Chase enumerates, emphasizing the last item as though it proves everything.

"Goddam it, can't I be cheerful? Or is it obligatory for a friend of House's to be miserable? I **like **this tie. Just for your information, myriads of people have told me that it suits me. Coming from someone who still wears his preppie British school uniform, that's pretty strong! As for calling House 'Greg' - we've been friends these fifteen years, so I don't think I'm forcing too great a level of intimacy on him by switching to first names. Unlike you folks, I also consider it fair and just that he pay for his food every now and then. It's merely a question of asserting oneself, y'know." He leans on the conference table with one hand, raking the fingers of the other through his hair. "Have all of you internalized House's truisms that everybody lies and people don't change? Well, here's news for you: people **do **change! **I've** decided to change, to become the person House needs, not the one he wants. None of the 'symptoms' you listed count as abnormal outside House's incestuous little microcosm. If House won't leave it to see the world, I'll bring the world to him." With that he leaves the room, whistling defiantly.

The others stare at each other in shocked silence. "This won't do," Thirteen says decisively. "If we don't get those tests done on him, House'll go ballistic."

"We can't force him," Foreman notes. "Let House deal with him."

"If we let House talk to him about this, it's just a question of time before **both **of them figure out what we did," Thirteen argues.

Chase shrugs. "We could confess to House."

They contemplate this suggestion. It would undoubtedly be unpleasant, but …

"Or to Wilson," Taub supplements.

"Are you crazy?" Foreman's voice rises half an octave. "House might find it funny, but Wilson will be less than amused. Don't forget he's head of a department."

"I think I know how we can play this," Thirteen suddenly says.

A few minutes later Chase, Thirteen and Foreman are positioned in front of Wilson's desk, looking like schoolchildren caught smoking behind the gym. Pretending that their entry hasn't disturbed him in the slightest, Wilson signs off two more files before he looks up.

"Well?" he says unsmilingly.

"You were right," Foreman says. "Your behaviour was normal while House's reaction was over the top."

"So you're apologizing."

They nod with varying degrees of discomfort. "But," Foreman adds, "we do need you to get the tests done, if only to reassure House."

"Why should I help you to reassure House by taking superfluous tests when your unhelpful behaviour led to this situation in the first place?"

"You were also right when you said that House was behaving oddly this week," Thirteen cuts in. "We don't know what exactly happened in Trenton, but he seems to be worried in a big way about getting fired. He did his clinic duty earlier this week, he's been doing his paperwork, he's at work on time," she lies unblinkingly, "and today he was going to leave early to avoid Cuddy when you walked in. She's expected back this evening, isn't she? He's a bundle of nerves and he needs to get home to rest. If he ends up staying here to persuade you to take the tests, there'll be a lot of yelling, Cuddy will walk in on both of you having it out, and then there's no knowing what he'll throw at Cuddy. I don't think that's such a great scenario."

Wilson leans back. "I just don't get it. His job - and by extension that means the whole department - is in danger, but no one informs me, no one asks me to intercede with Cuddy or talk with House?"

"Will you do the tests?" Foreman asks point-blank.

"He'd do it for you," Chase says, referring not-so-subtly to House's DBR three years earlier.

"CT and blood work; no MRI," Wilson says, resigning himself to the inevitable. Chase looks as though he might argue.

"Okay," Foreman agrees quickly.

When Wilson rises, Foreman and Thirteen flank him while Chase brings up the rear. Wilson turns round, raising both hands. "I don't need bodyguards, thank you. Schedule a CT for me while I go to the lab to get the blood work done."

"And you'll stay the night for observation?" Thirteen probes.

Wilson sighs. "Yes, okay, on condition that House goes home. Make sure that he understands that those are the conditions for my agreeing to this. If I have to stay the night, I want to get some work done, and not have him peering over my shoulder analysing every twitch and jerk."

"We'll tell him," Foreman promises.

"I'll go with you to the lab," Thirteen offers. It's clear that she doesn't trust him not to escape.

Wilson shrugs, but doesn't object any further.

Foreman and Chase return to the conference room to find Taub staring at the display of his cell phone.

"I've written Lucas a text message. It says, 'Stop messing w/me or will sue u.' What do you think?"

"Yeah," Chase nods, looking somewhat unconvinced. "It's short and to the point. But you might want to emphasize the point a bit more, make it clear that you mean business."

"How do you mean?"

"Slit his tyres, scratch his paint job, I dunno."

"That's infantile," Taub remonstrates.

"Chase is joking," Foreman interposes, "but you should waylay him and make sure he understands that he'll have an expensive law suit coming his way if he doesn't back off."

"Waylay him?" Taub repeats, looking slightly queasy.

"Metaphorically speaking."

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"It's great," says Chase with unfeigned enthusiasm. "Foreman and I will get hold of him and escort him to the car park. There you lie in wait, and when we arrive you step up and threaten him with reparation payments, damage claims, alimony, …"

"Alimony?"

"Well, yeah. If Rachel leaves you, someone has to pay alimony."

"Oh, great!" Taub mutters. "Alright, I'll do it. Just see to it that he doesn't touch me."

"Don't worry. If he gets violent, I have a trick or two up my sleeve," Foreman reassures him.

Taub looks anything but reassured, not even when Chase and Foreman high five one another.

They take the elevator to the first floor, Taub heading for the car park upon disembarking while Chase and Foreman make for the clinic.

* * *

In Examination Room 3, Lucas is perched on a stool, rotating to and fro with studied nonchalance, while House studies papers that he's spread out neatly on the examination table, his gaze focused, his brow furrowed.

"This was filed two days ago," he observes, swinging around to target Lucas. "How come you know about it?"

"I've been keeping an eye on the boy lately," Lucas retorts glibly. "What he does affects Lisa, so it affects me, doesn't it?" He stops swinging around to watch House as he silently scoops up the papers and replaces them in a large manila envelope. "We have a deal," Lucas reminds House.

House looks up, all the cocky assertiveness and inquisitiveness wiped off his face, replaced by sadness and resignation. As he meets Lucas's curious stare, anger fights to claim its rightful place, but all he says is, "Yeah."

He grabs his cane from where he hooked it over the washbasin, limps to the door and opens it.

"Wait," Lucas calls after him. "How do I know you'll stick to your side of the deal?"

"You'll just have to trust me, won't you?" House throws at him over his shoulder. He draws up short at the sight of Foreman and Chase lounging against the clinic desk, Chase flirting with one of the nurses while Foreman looks on with a bored mien.

"Wilson?" House asks.

"Gone for the blood work and the CT. Will stay the night, he says, if ...," Chase breaks off and looks to Foreman for support.

"If you go home and don't bother him," Foreman chips in. "He's pissed at you, and we have to stay anyway, House, so ..." He makes a shooing motion with his hand.

"Yeah, I got it." House sounds and looks tired. "Okay, phone me as soon as the results come in and mail me a copy of everything."

"No problem."

Foreman and Chase watch him depart, observing his slow movements, the heavy reliance on his cane, the sag of his shoulders.

"That was easy," Foreman says. "Too easy."

"Perhaps there's more truth in what we told Wilson than we realized," Chase speculates.

"Hey, guys," comes Lucas's voice from behind them. "What's the meaning of this?" He waves his cell phone dangerously close to Foreman's nose, causing him to back away with a scowl.

Chase peers at the screen over Foreman's shoulder, barely suppressing a grin. "You're so screwed," he tells Lucas with undisguised satisfaction, gesturing at him to leave the clinic with them. "Taub doesn't appreciate you dishing out the dirt about him to House. He's going to sue you for breaching his privacy." Chase isn't sure whether there is such a thing, but it sounds good.

"Huh? I didn't pass on anything about him to House. Really!"

"No?" Foreman's voice from Lucas's left side has a threatening undertone. "Sounded like it the other day."

"And the envelope House was holding looked plump," Chase joins in from Lucas's right side.

"There was that remark you made associating Taub with another hospital employee and implying that House was paying you."

"Hey, that was a joke!" Lucas protests nervously. "Can't you guys take a joke? Besides, he can't sue me because of one picture." His confidence slowly returns. "He'd never win, plus his wife would find out about his affair then, wouldn't she?"

"What affair?" Chase mimics astonishment. "Foreman, does that count as libel?"

"Dunno. But I'm sure Taub's lawyer does. As for winning the case, last Friday Taub picks me up just after he picks up that gal. Then we drop her off at her place and **then **we spend the rest of the evening gettin' wasted. Jes' the two of us." Foreman is doing his broadest ghetto accent, not even bothering to make the story sound credible.

Lucas looks from one to the other. "Alright, I got the message. I stay off Taub, right?"

"Just Taub?"

"Yeah, yeah, I **get **it - I stay off of all of you, the whole happy House family. But really, I ..."

He stops short as they enter visitor's parking. Against his car, arms crossed, lounges Taub. Turning to Foreman, Lucas runs a hand through his hair.

"Listen, man, I don't want any trouble. I had some business with House that had nothing, absolutely **nothing **to do with any of you. I'll give Taub any reassurance he wants, but," here he squints uneasily at the security camera overlooking the parking lot, "but I'm really not the type for, y'know, the physical stuff."

Foreman follows his glance towards the surveillance camera. "Okay, I'll see whether I can get Taub to budge. He's not as dangerous as he looks."

"It's not him I'm worried about, it's you two gorillas ... hey, hey, no need to take offence!" Lucas raises his hands in a placating gesture.

Foreman gives him a quelling look, and then makes his way over to Taub. "We've got him squirming. He says he's only got one picture of you with that blonde. It seems he isn't observing you."

"**Only **one picture? One's enough to ruin me. What the hell do I do?" Taub moans. "What does he want?"

"Nothing, as far as I can make out. But just to make sure, you should go over to him and intimidate him."

"Intimidate? I'm not sure I know how you spell that."

"It might help if you threaten to go to Cuddy. From the way he's avoiding our security cameras I have a feeling that he doesn't want her to know that he's slinking around her hospital in her absence."

"Let's hope you're right." Taub straightens up. Once he's adjusted his tie as though to strengthen his position by its perfect alignment, he clears his throat and advances a few reluctant steps towards Lucas.

But before he can approach within easy speaking distance, a sudden commotion from the other end of the parking lot catches the group's attention. A car drives in with screeching tyres, a youth hops out and advances purposefully on the group.

"You," he yells, clearly and penetratingly. "Yes, you!" He's athletic, the blond young man, covering the distance between his car and Chase and Lucas in record time.

"Who, me?" Chase is nonplussed, but the man, more of a boy actually, ignores Chase completely, cornering Lucas instead against a neighbouring car.

"You set me up!" he grinds out, his jaws working and his fists clenched.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Lucas retreats until the hood of the car brings him up short.

"You didn't tell me she's sick!" He has advanced into Lucas's personal space. Being a head taller than Lucas, he looms over him, an effect magnified threefold as he plants his hands on the hood on either side of Lucas. Lucas leans back at a crazy angle to get some breathing space, panic written clear across his features.

"I'm calling security," Foreman mutters, taking out his cell phone.

"Who ... what ...?" Lucas's eyes flicker to and fro in agitation.

"You told me she was fine. You said nothing about cerebral bloody palsy. How the frigging hell am I supposed to get custody for a kid that's practically a vegetable? Hell, **I'm** not sure I can deal with that, so how the fuck do I convince the judge?" He grasps Lucas's shirt and thrusts his face into Lucas's.

"Someone get this kid off of me," Lucas grunts.

"Here, now," Foreman adjures, laying a calm, but heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. Two security men lope across the parking lot.

"Over here," Chase shouts to them, yanking the blond boy's arm back as hard as he can. The boy grunts and yanks right back, causing Chase to tumble hard against Lucas. Lucas puffs as the air leaves his lungs, Chase curses and Foreman tackles the stranger from behind, holding him locked in a vice until the security guards reach them. They immediately take over, twisting the youth's arm onto his back and doubling him over the hood of the car.

"Call the police," Foreman instructs them. "He attacked Mr Douglas."

"No ... it's okay," Lucas wheezes, straightening up and smoothing down his shirt. "No harm done."

Foreman shrugs. "Whatever. Escort him off the premises and inform Dr Cuddy should he ever return."

The security guards lead their charge off, who throws a hate-filled glance over his shoulder at Lucas. "You bastard," he says from between gritted teeth. One of the guards gives him a rough jerk. "I'm onto you and your little game."

Lucas waits until he's well out of ear-shot, then he laughs self-consciously, saying, "No idea what that was about, but if you don't mind, I'll get going - long night ahead of me." He practically sprints to his car, pulling out of the parking lot moments later.

"Odd," Chase remarks.

"Someone being mad at him? Nothing odd about that," is Taub's opinion.

"No. I mean, it's odd that Lucas should pretend not to know that guy. Why should he lie?" Chase thinks for a moment. "He was familiar, but I can't place him."

"I didn't get a good look at him, but I thought so too," Taub assents. They both look at Foreman, but he gives them a don't-ask-me shrug.

"There's a simple explanation," he tells them. "Lucas meets the fellow in the clinic while he's lurking around, which is where you probably saw him too. The boy confides some sob story to Lucas - a story that apparently involves a kid - and Lucas offers his services. Somewhere along the way he gets careless or slips up, not getting the all the information his client expects. His client freaks out, as we just witnessed, but Lucas would like to hush the matter up, because if Cuddy finds out that he's procuring clients in **her **clinic, possibly clients who are planning medical malpractice suits against **her **hospital, then she'll blow her top."

"Sounds plausible," Chase concurs. "What an idiot, to risk a run-in with Cuddy!" Then, out of the blue, he adds, "He's blackmailing House."

Taub looks disbelieving. "He can't be that much of an idiot. No one in their right senses blackmails House. That's like ... jumping into a pool with a shark."

Foreman, however, looks thoughtful, encouraging Chase to expand on his theory. "House **has **been odd lately - I'd describe him as 'dampened'." The others nod their agreement. "Nevertheless, he's been keeping a low profile. He's met up with Lucas three times this week, but he doesn't seem to relish those meetings at all, so House can't be the instigator. Lucas was saying something about a 'deal' when they parted today, while House seemed, well, miserable."

"Normal misery, House-level misery, or abnormal misery even for House?" Taub jokes feebly.

"It makes sense," Foreman decides, "and it explains why House is avoiding Cuddy. It also means that House isn't having you observed."

Taub chews on this. "You mean House isn't messing with me."

"Not more than usual," Chase grins.

"We'd do well to assist House," Foreman says, "if we want to keep our jobs."

All three pagers go off.

"Cuddy?" Chase, who's found his pager first, is perplexed. The others study their pagers and nod.

"Then I suggest we get our asses back," Taub suggests. "There's no better way of helping House than keeping Her Majesty happy."


	7. Day 10 Part 2

**Author's Note:**

Mild sex scene in here, hence the M-rating.

Again, thanks to my ever-encouraging beta, who had to dispel any amount of doubts about this chapter, tender medical advice and provide inspiration: House's balding pate is courtesy of **Brighid45**'s Treatment series - she and I are in complete agreement that House's attraction does not lie in bodily perfection - think of all the time Hugh Laurie could spend on other stuff if he didn't have to spend hours getting his bald spots covered!

_

* * *

Olivia:  
Nay, come, I prithee; would thou'ldst be ruled by me!  
Sebastian:  
Madam, I will.  
__Olivia:  
__O, say so, and so be!  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 4 Scene 1]_

_**6 pm**_

A quick glance in her bedroom mirror tells Cuddy that the combination of coffee, shower and make-up has done little to erase the signs of stress and fatigue from her features.

"Not getting any younger," she mutters at her reflection as she decides to lay on the make-up a little thicker, "if a short trip bowls you over," but she knows that it's more than that. Twenty years ago, her worries were few and far between: no fears of losing her (only) daughter in a messy custody battle, no guilt at ending a long-term relationship (her relationships never having lasted long enough to qualify as 'long-term'), no foreboding that she might have screwed up a long-lasting friendship and potential relationship within a record-breaking three days. No warring voices in her head, the one muttering, 'You'll find House lying in a pool of vicodin, whisky and vomit, thanks to your neglect,' the other chanting, 'Trust him! He wants you to trust him.' Oh, and there is a third one insinuating,'Don't even fool yourself into believing you mean anything to him either way. You're just another puzzle to him, and now you're solved.'

The hand applying the lipstick shakes so badly that a splash of bright red adorns one of her incisors. With a curse she plucks a tissue from the dresser to wipe the offending smudge off. She applies a dash of perfume to her wrists, grabs her purse and dashes into the kitchen where Marina is serving Rachel her supper.

"Are you sure this is okay with you?" she asks. "I know this is very short notice for you, Marina."

"Oh, that's okay. I was expecting your phone call," Marina says comfortably. "Didn't think you'd be able to stay away from the hospital after being away for five days."

Hospital? She doesn't intend to ... although, now that she comes to think of it, the hospital is the likeliest place to find House.

"I can only stay till ten, though," Marina continues.

"Oh, I should definitely be back by then," Cuddy hastens to reassure her. After all, it isn't as though major administrative melt-downs usually occur after six pm. "I'll hurry." It's an empty promise, as both know.

"Well, me and my sweetie here have a lot to catch up on, don't we, honey?" Marina coos at Rachel, who giggles back happily. "You just take your time, Dr Cuddy."

As Cuddy pulls into her parking space in front of the hospital, a viscous mass of anticipation and dread churns in her stomach: the anticipation of seeing House again, his keen mocking eyes (hopefully) raking over her as he pretends that the smile of relief that fleetingly crosses his lips is one of mockery; the dread that House will reject her outright, dishing out a few choice morsels of casual cruelty to make sure that she doesn't come back for second helpings.

The nurse on lobby duty greets her politely as she enters and swings straight past the clinic into her office. Her PA has left already, the only sign of her continued attendance the past five days a stack of files and a pile of memos for Cuddy. Cuddy flicks through the memos cursorily - this isn't why she's here - and decides that they contain nothing that won't keep. Funny, eighteen months ago she would have tackled the pharmacy's shipping issues and dealt with a donor's request for patient statistics at once. Now she will dedicate the evening to dealing with her most pressing problem.

She takes the elevator to the fourth floor, her fingers jerking at the pearl chain around her neck in manner that bodes ill for that maltreated accessory, her mind playing through and discarding a number of opening lines. Not that she needs them, she realizes as she glances into House's office: neither he nor his belongings are in evidence. His fellows, though equally absent, have left ample traces in the conference room; coats, bags and case files are proof of their continued presence in the hospital. It might be a good idea to check with the team before embarking on a wild goose chase through Princeton in search of House.

After grabbing a patient file from the table, she makes her way to the patient's room, fully expecting to find someone from the team there. That no one from the team is there is surprising, but not inexplicable. That the nurse on duty knows nothing of the blood work, stress test or MRI for which the patient is supposed to have been scheduled according to the case file in Cuddy's hands **is **surprising. **And **it's exactly the sort of laxness that'll cost the hospital its certification according to ISO-whatever if it gets around. Having to keep House hidden in the attic when the inspectors come is one matter, but having his team behave in a similar manner when their professional abilities can't pretend to reach even a fraction of his Olympian heights is ridiculous. When was the last time she spoke to a team member, she asks the nurse. More than three hours ago, is the reply. Cuddy pages the team.

Chase, Foreman and Taub arrive in a cluster while Thirteen slinks in a moment later.

"Where the hell were you?"

The three men look at one another. Thirteen gazes at a spot on the wall.

"In the car park," Taub finally volunteers.

"Doing what?" Cuddy prompts.

"Engine problems," Taub mumbles.

"Your car battery flat-lined?" Cuddy's saccharine tones would warn persons of considerably less acumen than the four young people lined up before her that her notoriously low supply of patience is now completely depleted. "Well, let me tell you that you have a patient," the case file lands on the floor in front of them with a thunk, "who, if he flat-lines - a distinct possibility unless you run the tests and get a diagnosis - might not appreciate it that you consider jump-starting your car of primary importance."

Foreman makes a last-ditch stand to salvage their credibility. "His problem is probably neurological, and we won't be able to get an MRI before tomorrow."

"Have you scheduled it yet?"

"No," Foreman admits, "but …"

"His liver is failing, which you would know if you were monitoring him. I think you'll find that Radiology can be uncommonly cooperative when faced with impending patient death."

Foreman has the grace to look ashamed. Satisfied that the team is suitably cowed, Cuddy moves on to the main item on her agenda. Taking two steps towards the elevator she asks casually, as if the thought just struck her, "Where's House?"

"Umm, at home. He's ...ah … in a bit of pain again," Chase answers.

"But we're keeping him informed," Taub adds hastily.

"About motor maintenance?" Cuddy can't help the jibe. As a parting shot she adds, "In future kindly restrict your personal affairs to off-work hours."

"Oh, wedo," Taub counters in a tone that makes her abort her dynamic exit.

When she swings round to face him she registers that the look on his face is insolent. "Sorry?"

"**Our** private lives aren't interfering with our working environment." That is rich, coming as it does from Chase, whose marital disaster cost the hospital one of its most promising young doctors. She rolls her eyes, a gesture unconsciously mirrored by Foreman and Thirteen who notice the unintended irony of Chase's remark.

Chase sees it and grins reluctantly. "Oh, okay, but I'm not the dean."

"I don't understand what you're getting at," Cuddy stalls, trying to figure out how much the team knows. What has House said? What rumours about them has he strewn? He isn't above shouting from the roof-tops that he's had sex with her; only this time he knows that they haven't had sex ... yet. Or doesn't he?

"Why don't you ask at home?" Foreman suggests with a patronizing air that makes Cuddy want to remind him that he's black-balled all up and down the East Coast, so will he kindly treat her with the deference due to the only administrator who is willing to pay him the salary he is now earning? "And make sure he stays clear of us," Foreman adds.

The team troops out leaving Cuddy rooted to the spot, mystified and perplexed. What has House done, and how exactly does his team expect her to keep him off their backs? House is their **boss**, for goodness sake, and an intrusive one at that. He's always invaded their privacy and he always will - nothing new there. What changed during the past five days that his fellows are mutating to the crew of the Bounty?

* * *

Chary of descending on him (again) without prior notice, she tries calling him on his land line and on his cell phone. She's pretty sure that he's ignoring her calls, but that doesn't help her to determine what to do. What if he isn't ignoring her, but is lying helpless in his apartment? It doesn't seem likely, but who would have thought that doing emergency duty in Trenton would reduce him to a state comparable to the days right after his operation?

Cuddy hesitates in front of the green door to House's apartment chewing on her lower lip. Then she knocks with a confidence she doesn't feel. In the seconds of silence that follow she strains to hear the sound of his cane approaching the door, but she can make out nothing. She's just lifted her hand to knock again, wondering what she'll do if he doesn't answer the door at all, when House's voice growls, "The door's open!"

Her mood lifts microscopically - at least he isn't turning her away at the door. She lets herself in quickly before he can change his mind, but hesitates in the doorway.

House is on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes trained on the television set, cigarette smoke curling in tendrils around his head. He's deliberately ignoring her, she surmises. Her lips tightening, she drops her bag on the floor and moves briskly to the end of the couch. Yes, he is definitely giving her the cold shoulder; not even the clack of her heels on the wooden floor cause his eyes to waive their steady gaze. He lifts the glass he's cradling and empties it. On the coffee table stands a considerably depleted bottle of scotch next to a prescription bottle of ibuprofen and an ashtray. If he has drunk all that, then he must be buzzed. The administrator within her notes that she may be dealing with the next addiction issue, but she pushes the thought aside for the moment.

"Hey," she says, trying to elicit some sort of response.

"You're back," he says flatly, still not looking at her.

Other than stating the obvious, this can mean, _I'm pissed because you left me here alone, so now I'm sulking,_ but that's most likely an overly optimistic interpretation. Had he simply felt neglected, he'd have turned her hospital topsy-turvy, ransacked her office and tee-peed her yard. A more probable translation reads, _This is the kind of cloying relationship I didn't want to get conned into, so you being back is a Bad Thing._

"Your leg?" she asks, aware that it's the wrong thing to ask and hating herself for doing it nevertheless, but worried enough not to be able to stop herself.

"Fine."

The sounds from the television penetrate her consciousness - moans and grunts of the unmistakeable sort. He's watching porn.

Cuddy draws a deep breath of smoke-filled air and flees into the kitchen. There she roots around in the cupboards until she finds a glass that she fills at the kitchen sink. Leaning against the counter, she drains it, blinking back tears of disappointment. It isn't that she objects to House getting wasted as such. She is also aware that he's an occasional smoker, and she's never harboured the illusion that he'll quit just to conform to some health ideal, though it would be nice if he did - she really, really hates the smell of tobacco. His porn habit isn't a state secret either nor does it bother her _per se_. Although it isn't exactly her cup of tea, it is a pursuit that she feels she can accept; indeed, given the right mood and the right movie, she can envisage joining him and ... perhaps ... even enjoying it. She certainly doesn't feel threatened by it, as a sexually less self-confident woman might.

It isn't what he's doing in itself, therefore, that bothers her; it's the message that he's sending her way when he indulges in activities that are practically guaranteed to get her back up: he **knows** that the alcohol will worry her and the smoke will irritate her, and he **assumes** that watching porn will insult her. The message here isn't: _Nice that you're back, Cuddy _or_ Let's get into the mood for some hot, steamin' sex! _No, she can read this one as clearly as if it were pinned onto his forehead: Given the choice, Greg House prefers to spend the evening with booze and x-rated movies than with Lisa Cuddy. This undiluted humiliation, is it a harbinger of what she'll be facing on a regular basis if she decides to push this ... this undefined state into something approaching a serious relationship? In all likelihood it is. This could well be House's way of warning her, _Caution! If you cross the line, prepare yourself for neglect, humiliation and exposure to public ridicule!_

Under the guilt and the anxiety that have dictated her actions up till this point, another emotion begins to put out its tendrils, an emotion that she's all too familiar with in conjunction with House: anger. Instead of telling her straight to her face that he isn't interested, he's antagonizing her, utterly indifferent to the pain and the humiliation this drawn-out death of her hopes is inflicting on her. Much better to have it out at once, make a clean, precise incision, lop off the offending emotion …

Metaphors involving House and amputation are loaded even if one doesn't take Hannah's death into account. Still, it had taken her all of ten minutes to get the message across to Lucas - one minute to state the bare facts and another nine to convince him that she meant it - and if this is the end between House and her, then she'd appreciate certainty instead of living in a haze of apprehension. She'd seen it happen to Stacy; a month-long tug-of-war; being rebuffed by House on the one hand, but on the other being reeled in again by the vulnerability that lay underneath the abrasiveness, and she wants no revival featuring **her** heart as his yo-yo.

"I ... should go," she says, emerging from the kitchen and positioning herself where she has a good view of his face. It is, however, absolutely blank, revealing nothing. He just nods slightly as he leans forward to replenish his glass from the bottle on the table. Cuddy shifts slightly from foot to foot, hoping he'll say something ... anything that'll give her an opening or, at the very least, an excuse to return so that she'll retain access to that heavily guarded sanctum that constitutes House's private life.

_You're pathetic_, she tells herself sternly. _He has a perfect right to push you away - didn't you do the same to him this past year? He bore it with grace, so buckle up and do the same! Nor does he owe you an explanation when you never gave him one, hiding Lucas from him instead of showing your cards._

She resists the urge to go to him and plant a farewell kiss on his cheek; House is uncomfortable with unsolicited intimacy, and touching him so familiarly would just make things worse for herself. So she makes her way back to the door in silence, her shoulders slumped in defeat. No, she won't cry! She's tried and …

No, she hasn't, she admits to herself. She knew what she was letting herself in for when she came to his apartment eight days ago and she expected him to wall himself in sooner or later. Stacy lasted five years before the infarction and another five months after it. **She's **lasted a glorious total of one week and one day, and that's a generous estimate! House may owe her no explanation for his volte-face, but that doesn't mean that she can't try for one. Her spirits, dampened recently by the cumulative effects of her failed engagement, her mother's reproaches and Simon's thinly veiled threats, rear up in a last-ditch stand against passive acceptance of life's vicissitudes. She didn't get to her present position by allowing other people's expectations to govern her actions!

Cuddy drops the bag that she's already picked up and turns back again. Resolutely she marches back into the room and plants herself square in front of the television facing House, hands on her hips. This time she gets her reaction, for House tenses visibly.

"I want us to talk," Cuddy demands.

"I don't. I prefer the entertainment those ladies are providing," House says, gesturing at the screen.

Cuddy casts a reflexive glance over her shoulder. Two nubile young damsels are writhing and moaning in a most suggestive manner. Everything about them screams 'fake': the double D breasts, the oily slickness of their skin, the passion conveyed by heaving chests, drooping eyelids and swollen lips. Is she supposed to believe that House prefers this to the real thing? Seriously no!

"Move aside, unless you have more to offer," House orders.

That does it! It's as though someone is pressing down on the accelerator of her inner Porsche, making her leap forward in quick acceleration. She isn't one of his patients to be brow-beaten into a craven retreat by a barrage of crude suggestive comments. She never backs off when he challenges her, and she has no intention of starting down that route now. Narrowing her eyes at him, she shifts her stance slightly so as to give House a half-profile view of herself. Then she moves a hand up her blouse, popping open one button after another, her eyes never wavering from House's face.

At the first button his expression is one of puzzled irritation, but the puzzlement soon gives way to a grin of anticipation as he leans back with both arms draped comfortably along the back of the sofa. The mocking gleam in his eyes says, _Let's see how far she'll go before she backs down and slinks away!_

Any doubts Cuddy nourishes regarding the wisdom of exposing naked skin before House vanish at the sight of that smirk - she'll wipe it off his face before she's done, she swears. Slowly and deliberately she opens two more buttons, noting with satisfaction that his Adam's apple bobs convulsively as she exposes creamy breasts encased in contrasting navy blue lace.

When the realization that Cuddy has no intention of backing down penetrates the whisky fumes enveloping his brain, the grin slowly fades. She thinks she sees panic flit across his face, but it passes so quickly that she can't be sure. Next, a frown of concentration creases his forehead.

Cocking his head to one side he says, "Turn!"

"Huh?"

"Turn, so I get a full view of you." He waves a hand to illustrate what he wants. This isn't quite the state of drooling lechery that Cuddy is aiming at, but at least he's looking, so she turns to face him fully, tugging the now open blouse completely apart.

"You've lost weight. Has the toddling tapeworm been sucking you dry?"

"I'm doing a strip-tease and all you can think about is my BMI?"

"If it affects the girls, yeah. A weight loss of twenty pounds equals one cup size. Those two are B now!" There is a hint of indignation in his voice. Still, he's focusing on the right part of her body, even if for the wrong reasons.

"Better a B in the hand than a double D on TV," Cuddy quips, dropping the blouse entirely.

"Point," he says, tipping his head slightly in assent, "but a D or two in hand is better still."

"I don't see 'em queueing up outside your door, so you'll have to make do with what you can get," she says as she wriggles out of her skirt, hiding the relief she feels at having managed to pull him out of his morose brooding into something approaching his normal bantering state. "Shapely ass makes up for other defects."

"You mean elephantastic ..." The words die on his lips as, dressed only in bra and thong, she advances on him resolutely, plucks the glass from his hand and dumps it on the table. "Cuddy, this is not a good idea!"

"I think it is."

"You're taking advantage of a wasted man," he protests weakly.

"You should have thought of that before you tipped all that booze down your gullet. You knew I'd come."

He doesn't deny it. Instead he leans his head back, closes his eyes and massages his forehead, muttering, "Oh, Christ!"

Cuddy sobers instantly. She wants his defences down, so she can figure out what is going on - if pulling them down includes baiting him sexually, then that is only fair in the war they've been fighting for years - but she has no intention of violating any personal boundary that he wants respected. To tell the truth, she is surprised. It isn't that she's ever believed that sexually he is half as interested in her as he pretends he is; she's always been keenly aware that while there is an attraction between them, his self-control is at least as good as hers. Nevertheless, she has yet to meet the man who'd turn down what she's offering, especially when he would be justified in shrugging it off the next day as an error committed under the influence of alcohol, etc. That House, plastered as he is, with his inhibitions down, is refusing what he's been hankering after for years, and that with no jeering or mockery, means that something is off, something above and beyond an aversion to a steady established relationship with her.

She sits down on the armrest of the couch with her body angled away from him, shielded from his eyes. "House," she says softly. "House!"

He opens his eyes, but refuses to look at her. She reaches out for his chin and turns his face towards her. "Look at me!"

He complies grudgingly. She knows why: although adept at manipulation, he is a pitiful liar, especially when cornered. (She's seen him lie to the transplant committee, hesitating unnecessarily when he must have known beforehand precisely what questions would be asked and what he must answer, his mendacity so obvious that she wanted to shake him and ask whom he thought he could fool with such a pitiful performance, but surprisingly it always sufficed to convince the committee.) His standard strategy for avoiding situations in which he might be bludgeoned into telling uncomfortable truths is to go into the offensive well in advance, routing invaders of his privacy with a veritable bombardment of insults and callousness. That is, after all, what he's been subjecting her to this evening. Unfortunately for him, but most opportunely for her, he's miscalculated the effects of alcohol on the equation. Yes, she **is **pissed at finding him stewed to the gills, but that is no comparison to the detrimental effect it has on his ability to deflect. He may be a strong drinker, but he doesn't carry his drink well.

Making sure he's looking straight into her eyes, she asks, "Did I do something wrong?"

He shakes his head slightly. Good - this isn't about her. But now she's at a stand-still. Heart-to-heart talks have never been her thing. Things are the way they are; she deals with them and moves on, but she doesn't spend hours picking them apart. She doesn't pour her heart out to others, so she doesn't expect House to do so either. He'll never come right out and tell her what's bothering him, but that's alright. The question is, what does he want?

She registers that he's leaning ever so slightly into the hand that's cupping his chin. Chances are that he doesn't even notice what he's doing. Nevertheless, it gives her the courage to press on to the heart of the matter.

"If you say, 'I don't want you here and I want you to leave,' then I'll go," she tells him, her heart in her mouth. This could backfire badly.

"I ...," he begins. He's trying to get his mouth around the words, but then he breaks off, his eyes sliding away from her face to a corner of the room. "It's not that simple," he mutters, but as though to negate his words, he closes his eyes again and leans unmistakeably into her hand. She feels an odd little jolt in her stomach, while the last vestiges of annoyance fade away. Wondering whether she'll ever find out what this is about, she cups his face with both hands, tracing his cheekbones with her thumbs. His hands suddenly come up. She freezes, waiting for him to pull her hands away from her face, but he merely clasps her wrists, sighing deeply. Her stomach does some more of those roller-coaster flip-flops, while the muscles of her diaphragm responsible for breathing take a time-out.

"I should get dressed," she murmurs, trying to withdraw her hands, Instantly his grip tightens while his eyes fly open.

"No-o," he wails, but an instant later he releases her hands.

She senses his eyes on her as she moves around the room retrieving her clothes and putting them back on. When she is done, she sinks down next to him on the couch. He is silent, as is the television that he must have switched off while she was getting dressed, but the hand that is draped along the backrest toys with her hair. When she looks up at him he stops and removes the arm from behind her; she feels oddly bereft until she sees that his hand is now positioned uncertainly in the space between his thigh and hers.

Cuddy almost grins. This is like her dates in high school - correction: junior high - when the guys were unsure whether they were allowed to hold her hand at the movies, so that she'd have to take the initiative. Now that she comes to think of it, it was much the same in Michigan. No matter what House remembers of the matter, it was she who stalked him unremittingly, she who flirted outrageously with him in class, she who stuck her tongue down his throat at the dance and she who dragged him off to her dorm-room. House is like a maltreated puppy, tail wagging eagerly but head always ducked in anticipation of a kick or a blow, never quite daring to come close enough to lick one's hand.

She slips her hand into his and his fingers intertwine with hers instantly. Sighing contentedly, she closes her eyes and leans her head against his shoulder. After a moment she feels his cheek resting against her head.

"Are we okay?" he finally asks.

"I suppose you're not going to tell me what that was about?" she asks.

"Perhaps ... some day …"

"Am I to expect frequent repetitions of this kind of thing?"

"I don't know."

She sighs. "Yeah, we're okay." Partnership counsellors would probably be dismayed, but that's how they work - they don't explain and they never apologize, not directly.

She pulls her feet up onto the couch and leans comfortably against his shoulder. After a moment he reaches out and pulls her against his chest so that her weight is on his left leg. She traces patterns on his shirt while his thumbs draw circles on her shoulder blades. It is difficult to pinpoint the moment when cuddling ends and making out begins, but it is inevitable, she supposes, that their hands start roaming further afield while their lips meet in little nibbling kisses, kisses that grow longer and more intense, that one of them slips a tongue into the other's mouth. that while she was perfectly happy a moment ago to caress his chest through his shirt, she suddenly needs to feel his skin, that his hand accidentally pulls her blouse out of her skirt as he rubs the small of her back.

He gasps audibly when naked breast first meets bared chest, his eyes widening in amazement at the sensation, and from then on it's a wild scramble to rid themselves of their remaining clothes. She hisses in turn when he enters her, unwilling to believe that a raw physical event can elicit the kind of emotional reaction that she's experiencing - this feeling of possessiveness, of gushing warmth, of …

"Damn!" he says, short and sharp. He's just thrust, hard, a second time, but now he stills completely. She takes a moment to come down from her cloud and comprehend what is bothering him. He has come.

He looks aghast, then he closes his eyes and buries his face in her shoulder, embarrassment rolling off him in waves. She squints down on the bald patch at the back of his head with affection, understanding his mortification, but she's amused rather than annoyed. It hasn't escaped her notice that despite his constant flow of obscenities House is an spectator rather than an actor on the stage of sex, so it doesn't surprise her that when push comes to a shove, he shows the endurance of a hormonally challenged fifteen-year-old. Luckily, unlike aforesaid fifteen-year-old, House can't be completely ignorant of the uses two hands and a mouth can be put to, so there's no reason why he shouldn't be able to redeem himself.

Fate, however, has further humiliations in store for him. Next thing she knows, he's rolling off her clutching his thigh and pressing out a litany of four-letter words between clenched teeth.

"Breakthrough pain?" she asks, righting herself hurriedly and snapping right out of her rosy haze.

"No ... cramp." He's stretching out his leg and massaging his thigh with tense hands, his foot pulled up, his breathing heavy. Beads of sweat form on his brow, his incisors bite on his lower lip. "Be fine ... in a ... moment."

The 'moment' he speaks of turns into half an hour, at the end of which he's ensconced in his bed wrapped in a blanket with a heat pad on his thigh. Cuddy, dressed only in her thong and her blouse, pads around his apartment, taking the empty whisky glass and other debris into the kitchen. When she returns, he's irritating the seam of the blanket, still not quite meeting her eye.

"Oh, snap out of it, House!" she says, sitting down at his side and resting one hand on his blanket-covered chest. "I know your male pride is hurt, but this isn't the end of the world."

He's still silent, but at least he's looking at her now, albeit sheepishly. Had she known that bad sex would render Gregory House speechless, she'd have gone to bed with him that much sooner, she quips to herself, but she has the sense not to say it aloud. Instead, she says, "I may be a crappy doctor in your eyes, but even I know that missing chunks of thigh muscles don't make sex any easier."

"Missionary on the couch wasn't a good idea," he mutters.

"I don't mind being on top. Always," she says ambiguously and is relieved to see the hint of a smile play around his lips .In a moment of sudden insight she understands why House prefers hookers to picking up lonely singles in bars: although it's unlikely that he'll have a problem finding a woman willing to go with him, his pride must balk at the idea of explaining to her that, sorry, but no, he can't do any of the twenty-five fancy positions she prefers - she can choose between a blow-job and being on top, the latter, however, only if she avoids touching his right thigh ...

She draws calming circles on his chest, thinking of the few and far between times that he's let her get close in any way, usually when he was too badly injured to ward her off.

"You're looking like a cat that's got in the cream. The sex with Lucas must have sucked big time, if this gets you off." He's off poking and prying again. Clearly his pride has recovered and he's back to being a jerk.

"I'm not talking about Lucas to you," she says, rolling her eyes.

"So it sucked," he says in the tones of one who has just proven his theory.

"You think sex with Lucas sucked because I'm not freaking out over a premature ejaculation?" she says incredulously.

"You **like** sex. You said so yourself."

She can't remember saying anything that telling to House, but he's bound to know better than she does, and she certainly won't argue the point. "This," she gestures at him and at herself, "'thing' between us isn't about sex."

"You had me fooled," he says sarcastically. "I got the distinct impression that you wanted to jump me as much as I wanted to do you."

She wishes he wouldn't put it quite so crudely. "Put it down to your freaking pheromones or the happy hormones released by skin contact or whatever you want, but I'm fine like this" she says as she cuddles up to him, "I really don't care!"

Astonishingly, he shuts up, leaving her wondering whether it's the pseudo-science of her last statement or the cuddling that's keeping him content. They lie in comfortable silence, she with half an eye on her watch, when his telephone rings. She rises and brings it to him.

"Yes? ... Do an MRI." He listens for a moment before he repeats with impatience, "Do an MRI or I'll come out and do it myself! ... Good. Call me when you have the results." He puts the phone down frowning.

"Patient?"

"Nah. Wilson. We admitted him today. Partial facial paralysis, altered mental state, confusion. Stroke or drugs, I think."

"**What**?"

"CT and basic blood work showed no indication of a stroke, tox screen isn't back yet. Anyway," he gently propels Cuddy upright out of his arm. "he's being obstinate about the MRI and about staying put for the night, so I'd best go and see to him."

"You're not going anywhere," Cuddy decrees. "You're drunk." She wisely forbears to mention that his leg probably won't take too kindly to further exacerbation.

"I'm not. I just had ...," he leans back, trying to remember.

"That's exactly my point. **I'll** go in and check on him. Why didn't your team tell me about Wilson when I saw them this evening?"

"They're morons." He hesitates. "Are you coming back?"

She smiles, hearing the invitation in his question, but shakes her head. "Babysitter is off the clock at ten. I'll have to hurry as it is."

She leans over to kiss him, her lips lingering for a few seconds before she pulls away regretfully.

_

* * *

Clown:  
__[...] But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?  
__Malvolio:  
__Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.  
__Clown:  
__Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains.  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 4 Scene 2]_

_**9:00 pm**_

Chase puts down the phone. "House wants the MRI. He'll come back here if we don't do it."

Foreman slaps his hands on the conference table in frustration. "Our patient is more important than superfluous tests on Wilson. He's fine, and we all know it."

"Fine. **You **tell House why Wilson was acting like a lunatic," Chase snaps, holding the phone out to Foreman.

"It doesn't take four of us to do an MRI on Wilson," Thirteen intercedes. "Foreman and I can go and do the stress test, while you and Taub do the MRI."

"Ummm, do you guys mind if I leave?" Taub asks. "We've had some late nights recently, and Rachel ...," he tails off.

Chase, recently divorced and none the happier for it, takes pity on him. "Sure. Just make sure you don't run into Cuddy or she'll have your blood."

"She'll be gone by now. Thanks." Taub grabs his bag and sprints for the stairwell.

Half an hour later Thirteen enters Radiology.

"Almost done," Chase says. "It's clean."

"We didn't expect anything else, did we?" Thirteen says, looking at the screen. "How'd you persuade him to do the MRI?"

"Told him the truth."

Thirteen turns to stare at Chase. Chase shrugs. "He said he'd rather have it out than go through endless senseless tests this week and that House would never let it go without a diagnosis. I figured we'd be better off telling Wilson the truth than having him confront House and them figuring it out together. This way Wilson gets to salvage his dignity."

"Chase, how can you be so terribly naive?"

"What?" Chase looks genuinely puzzled.

"You've confessed to the head of oncology that four mere fellows have had a good laugh at his expense."

"So?" Chase gives her one of his boyish grins and spreads his hands. "We're not **his **fellows, and he'll hardly tell House what we did."

"We've alienated the most powerful person at PPTH. We're fish fodder."

"Cuddy's the most powerful person at PPTH, and she likes us. Leastways, she likes me." Chase's smile is smug now.

"You're really sweet." She could be talking to a toddler or a puppy."Have you never noticed how Cuddy defers to Wilson? He's head of oncology, he's on the board, and Cuddy has lunch with him in the cafeteria once a week. She hardly ever eats with other department heads, not even with House."

"So? They're friends. I eat with you!"

"She's the **dean**. If it were just friendship, they'd go somewhere outside the hospital. But by singling him out in front of all the others she's making a statement." Thirteen stares out at the prone figure of Wilson on the table. "Have you never wondered why a big shot like Wilson is content to stay for decades at provincial, low-budget PPTH? It's because here he has the power to determine hospital policy without the hassle of running it himself."

Outside, Wilson stirs slightly. Chase leans forward. "Almost done, Wilson," he says into the microphone. He turns back to Thirteen. "You make him sound like some sort of Machiavelli. ... Okay, Wilson, we're done."

Chase and Thirteen stand around awkwardly as Wilson swings his legs off the table. Thirteen silently hands him his personal belongings. Ignoring both of them completely Wilson snaps on his wristwatch, replaces his wallet in his back pocket and slips his cell phone and keys into his hip pocket.

"We're really sorry," Thirteen ventures.

"You're only sorry because Chase outed you and now you fear retribution," Wilson analyses with dismaying accuracy. "So what's the master plan now? Because I have no intention of acting as a guinea pig while House worries his way through every possible ailment."

"The tox screen," Chase suggests.

"What about it?" Wilson asks impatiently.

"It isn't even back yet," Thirteen objects.

"It'll be clean anyway," Wilson says dismissively.

"Doesn't have to be," Chase insists. "We can manipulate it."

"Brilliant! Let's have House trumpet all over the hospital that I was high while on duty! That'll go down really well with Cuddy and the board, not to mention the honourable accolade in my personnel file!"

"No, no," Thirteen hastily interrupts, expanding on Chase's idea. "You didn't come here high, you got high because someone slipped you something."

"It's been known to happen," Chase adds innocently.

Wilson ponders the merits of this tale. Finally he nods. "Okay, it'll have to do. And you guys drugged me because ..?"

" ... we were bored," Thirteen supplies.

At this moment Cuddy walks in. "Wilson! I was told you had a stroke!"

"No, I'm fine. CT, MRI and blood work are all clean," Wilson says briefly.

"But your symptoms?"

Wilson, Chase and Thirteen exchange glances. "The tox screen came up positive for speed," Wilson says eventually.

"Speed? But how?" Cuddy clearly excludes the possibility that Wilson, sober well-behaved James Wilson, can have taken drugs.

"Don't know. House, I presume," Wilson answers vaguely, casting a warning glance at the two fellows.

"House?" Cuddy echoes. "That doesn't …"

"... seem like something House would do?" Wilson completes for her. "Pardon me, but that's **exactly **what House would do and has done before."

"I meant to say that it doesn't make sense," Cuddy says, "because ..." Her mouth snaps shut and she blushes. "Oh, never mind! It's past nine - we can figure this out tomorrow." She turns to the others. "Your patient?"

"We're evaluating the stress test. The MRI showed no irregularities."

"And then?"

"If nothing crops up on the stress test, we'll start testing for genetic causes," Thirteen replies. That means a very long night in the lab.

"How come I saw Taub driving away just now?"

"We can manage without him," Chase says defensively. Cuddy looks unconvinced. "Marital problems," he elaborates.

"Really? I'm not surprised," Cuddy says cryptically. "Wilson, can I drop you off at your place?"

"No, no, it's okay, I've got my car here."

"What, you want to drive on speed?"

Wilson looks harried. "I'll ... take a cab. You go home to Rachel, Cuddy. I'm fine, really!"

"Alright. Well, goodnight." Giving everyone a very suspicious glare, Cuddy leaves.

"Thanks, man," Chase says, "but I don't think House will support that story."

"That's your problem," Wilson says coldly.

"Why'd you do it?" Thirteen asks curiously. "We'd agreed to foot the bill for this."

Wilson sighs. "You're a bunch of imbeciles, but you don't deserve to get fired, which is what'll happen if Cuddy believes that you drugged me."

"Better House than us?" Chase queries incredulously.

"_Quod licet Jovi, non licet bovi_," Wilson quotes. "In short, you are not House." He picks up his jacket. "Next time you feel the need to screw with people's heads, you'd do well to remember that!"

Chase stares after him. "And what does the Latin stuff he was spouting mean?"

"I think it means that Cuddy won't fire House, ever."


	8. Day 11

_Olivia:  
__Blame not this haste of mine. If you __mean well,  
__Now go with me and with this holy man  
__Into the chantry by: there, before him,  
__And underneath that consecrated roof,  
__Plight me the __full assurance of your faith;  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 4 Scene 3]_

_**May 27, 2010: Day 11**_

(Eight days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

**10 am**

When House ambles into Cuddy's office bearing a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a blue patient file, she's on the phone, haranguing a patient's lawyer. She looks up and smiles, the smile widening as he pushes the cup over to her side of the desk. He sits down opposite her, placing the file in front of him and tapping out a complicated Bach fugue on it as he waits for her to finish the conversation.

"Mr Baker, your client's medical malpractice suit is without any foundation. You know it and I know it. Your client withheld important information from us. We can hardly be held liable if ..."

"Of course we can. Everybody lies. It's our job to check their information."

Cuddy covers the mouthpiece of the telephone. "House, shut up!" She returns to the phone. "Mr Baker, I'm sorry, but I have to terminate this conversation. We have a medical emergency over here. Perhaps you can contact our legal department. Thank you."

She puts the phone down and gives House her full attention. "Ass," she says affectionately. "Of course he's got a good case, but I'll thank you not to tell him so."

"What! You lied to the lawyer?" House says in mock horror.

"Everybody lies, I'm told. What do you want, House?"

He taps the file, tipping his head slightly to one side. "I was thinking that we should get married."

Cuddy props her elbows on the desk and rests her chin in the palms of her hands, smiling up at him. "Sweet," she says. "A cup of coffee and a marriage proposal before lunch - I could get used to this. To what do I owe such gallantry: the 'mind-blowing' sex yesterday, your misplaced chivalry trying to make an honest woman of me, or the completely outrageous procedure that you mean to con me into permitting you to do by charming the pants off me?" She stretches out her hand for the file. "What is it? An utterly insane brain surgery on your patient or an experimental treatment that has shown great results on rats, but has never been tried on humans?"

He hands over the file in silence. She opens it, studies the single sheet of paper in it with puzzlement, her smile slowly fading, turns it over, studies it again ... "House, what is this?"

He limps around the desk until he is right behind her. Leaning over her shoulder, he picks up a pen from her desk to use as a pointer. "A marriage license application form. You sign here ... and here. Then I go and hand it in at the registrar's office, and we can be married by noon tomorrow."

She swivels around in her chair, almost knocking him off his feet. He backs off slightly, perching on the edge of her desk. After she's mustered him carefully, she says, disbelief tingeing her voice, "You're serious!"

"Would I joke about such things?" He fidgets around with the things on her desk until she lays a hand over his, stilling it.

"House, would you give me a short summary of our relationship?" she asks.

The tense tone catches his attention. His eyes flicker over her face, noting her expression - she fears he may be hallucinating again, projecting something into their relationship that isn't there. Her paleness tells him that it would not be a good idea to jerk her around by feeding that fear with some extravagant fantasy. Getting her back up probably isn't a wise idea anyway.

So he says, "Let's see: about a week ago you broke into my apartment to tell me you have the hots for me. We spent the next three days yelling at each other until you fled to Seattle. I ignored your phone calls for five days, so on your return you performed a really hot strip-tease for me and, um, we had ...," he scratches his chin reflectively, " ... the best sex I had this past year." Which isn't even a lie.

To say that relief is stamped across her face is an understatement. But she just says, "Well, I'm glad **one **of us had a good time yesterday!"

He narrows his eyes and cocks his head, smiling in his turn. "Come off it! You'd sacrifice any number of breath-taking orgasms for the opportunity to hold that over my head the rest of my life."

"So you think we should just skip dating, cohabiting, getting engaged?" Cuddy asks, eyeing the file as though it exudes a bad smell.

"Yes!" He nods with the enthusiasm of a child trying to scrounge a cookie just before dinner. Cuddy takes a deep breath. House decides that he doesn't need to hear her objections - he doubts she can verbalize any that haven't occurred to him. "I'm crap at dating, the last time I asked you to move in with me you fired me and your last engagement lasted a total of twenty-four hours, give or take."

She has a retort on her lips when a look of horror crosses her face and she practically dives into the top drawer of her desk. Finally, she re-emerges, flustered and flushed. "Shit!"

"What?" He thinks he has a good idea, though.

"The ring. Lucas's ring. I forgot to return it to him before I left for the conference, and now I can't find it. I was sure I'd left it in the desk. Oh, damn!"

"Ah, the ring," House rasps, "I, uh, ..."

"House, you took the ring?" He nods, bracing himself for the storm. "Where is it?"

"I returned it to Lucas." It sounds sheepish, even in his own ears.

"Thank god!" There is a pause.

"You're not mad at me?" he ventures.

"I **am **mad at you, but for the moment I'm going to enjoy the relief of not having lost a ring that Lucas couldn't afford to buy in the first place."

"He could have, if you'd married him."

"Well, I didn't."

"So now you can marry **me**," House says, returning to his original agenda.

"House, please enlighten me: what is this about?"

"Christ, Cuddy, you were going to marry that poor kid just because he got you an overpriced ring! Why do you need a reason to marry me?"

"I was not going to marry him because of the **ring**. Our relationship was moving that way." Cuddy is now visibly annoyed. Well, he hadn't reckoned with anything else.

"So is ours," he returns.

"What, after seven days?"

"Eight," he corrects reflexively. Cuddy waves his correction aside, but he continues undeterred, "We've known each other for over twenty years - no more surprises for either of us. If you're hoping that I'll change miraculously from a frog into a prince, forget it! Not going to happen."

"The thought of throwing you against a wall is certainly tempting. ... House, are you worried I'll ditch you?" She moves over to him, an arm out to touch him. He doesn't need Psychology 101, he needs her signature. Two signatures, to be exact. He'll have to tighten the thumbscrews a bit.

"You'd known Lucas for barely a year when you accepted his proposal. How long are you going to make me wait?"

"I'm **not **discussing Lucas with you," she says with asperity.

Diplomacy is wasted here; he'll have to change his hunting mode from camouflaged traps to open pursuit and capture.

"Fine, change of topic," he snaps. "What about Mowgli?"

Cuddy isn't following him, so House elucidates, "I'm informed that the village people want their man-child back. And by village people I don't mean Wilson's favourite band."

Cuddy turns her back to him, staring out of the window at the garden outside. "Yes, but I don't see how that's any concern of yours," she says, her voice a semblance of her usual calm.

He sinks down on the visitor's chair, props his legs on her desk and clasps his hands behind his head. He isn't fooled by her seeming calm. If she dislikes having her ex-fiancé brought up, she positively hates having her daughter dragged into the equation. He can't blame her: his opposition to her adoption plans and his initial animosity towards Rachel did more damage to their friendship than his addiction or his subsequent break-down.

"If you lose your garden gnome, then you get all pissy and I don't get laid. **Big **concern of mine. Hence it's my duty to my dick to support you in the battle ahead."

She turns away from the window and looks at him sprawled out across her office. It's difficult to see her face against the light, but her long silence indicates that she's mulling over something. The first tender shoots of hope push against the crusty layer of his innate pessimism. There is a faint chance that her fear of losing Rachel will outweigh her common sense.

"No," she says.

"Why not?" The green shoots wilt, scorched by the ultraviolet rays of anger she's now emitting.

"I'm not going to paint a false family idyll for the judge. If he chooses to give me custody for Rachel on the basis of my merits as a mother, then that's fine. If that isn't enough, if what Rachel's father can offer is worth more than that, I'd be selfish and uncaring to deprive her of it."

He increases the pressure. "You're not going to fight for her? You're going to let some stupid narrow-minded judge decide what's best for her based on a bunch of papers, a hearing and a paternity test?"

"No, House, that's not what I said. I **am **going to fight for her and I appreciate your quixotic attempt to support me in this, but we, our relationship, could blow up in a few months or years. If it takes a marriage based on ... I don't even know what it would be based on ... to convince the judge, then maybe I don't deserve to keep Rachel." She snaps the blue folder shut and throws it onto his lap. "And I certainly won't let you bully me into something this preposterous."

It's a pity that her desperate need for independence is able to overcome her protective instincts. He'd anticipated that she wouldn't like marriage as a means of retaining Rachel, but he'd banked on making a bit more leeway with her - a few plucks on her heartstrings, a bit of boyish charm was what he'd hoped to get by with. Now he'll have to get nasty. He swings his legs off her desk and leans forward.

"I can see how this is to your own benefit - no need to commit yourself to a screw-up like me - but it beats me how you can fool yourself into believing that growing up with a teen who doesn't know how to spell 'parent', let alone act like one, will serve your child's best interests! Are you going to hand her over to him like some FedEx package that was sent to the wrong destination?"

Cuddy's eyes widen. "Excuse me, but **you **were the one who advised me to return her and 'no damage done' when I had problems bonding! What has suddenly changed for you?"

"Cuddy, don't pretend to be an idiot! Her situation has changed." His voice rises - this is gaining an impetus that he can't control any more. Damn it, can't the woman just say yes and trust him to know what he's doing instead of begging to be skewered by his logic? "Had you returned her eighteen months ago, she would have found a perfectly suitable suburban foster-family - mom, dad, dog - and if our Paulie Bleeker was desperate for a kid he'd have to impregnate some other stupid sophomore. Now it isn't a choice between you and another suitable parent any more. If she's taken away from you, Simple Simon gets her."

"If Natalie had lived, she'd have kept her, I'm sure," Cuddy says, the quaver in her voice indicating that though she is still arguing rationally, she is on the verge of cracking. "Lots of teens raise children; there's no reason to suppose that Simon won't make an adequate father."

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't. But your thumb-sucker needs more than just 'adequate' and you know it. Do you think Bleeker can hold down a job to support the kid, get her to physiotherapy, speech therapy, doctors' appointments ..."

"You hacked her medical records," Cuddy states, eyes flaming with accusation.

"Do credit me with the ability to do my job! When you dumped the sloth on my rug, it didn't move the entire time you were gone. The only sounds it articulated were 'ah' and 'gah', and it still has the Moro reflex. Does that sound like the normal developmental status of an eighteen-month-old? Given the circumstances of its birth - hypoxia - and probable alcohol abuse during the first trimester of pregnancy, I'd say: cerebral palsy. This isn't about you any more, much less about me. Your cub needs to be protected and you're the one who has to do it."

"That's ripe, coming from you. What do you know about it?"

She's alluding to his lack of children, but her words tear open a drawer of his mind that he normally keeps tightly shut: his father abusing him while his mother took his father's side or studiously ignored all signs that didn't fit into her illusion of the perfect family. No, he'd never enjoyed unconditional protection, but then, he hadn't needed it as much as Rachel, had he?

"You're ... good at this mother thing. What her father is like is anyone's guess, but if she isn't to turn into a vegetable you'd better not risk finding out. "

Cuddy gives a choking laugh. "Right. I parade you in front of the judge and let him listen to you referring to Rachel variously as 'it', 'sloth', 'parasite', 'demon-spawn', 'rug-rat' - did I miss any of your affectionate diminutives? - while Simon's lawyer pulls a few delectable titbits from your past out of his hat. That's bound to convince everyone that you'll make a better father-figure than Simon."

"Exactly! If Simon's lawyer brings me up and the judge hears that your claim to familial stability consists of one year-long affair while mostly you've had this on-and-off thing with an addicted employee, you're sunk."

"Excuse **me**, but we don't have an 'on-and-off' thing!"

"Ask anyone at the hospital and that's what you'll hear. Apparently we've been screwing these past ten years. ... Don't look at me like that - you never bothered to stop any of the rumours. You enjoyed the flirting as much as I did!"

"While getting married turns us both miraculously into ideal parents?"

"**Then **it's a decade-spanning romance that was just awaiting my recovery from addiction for its consummation." He invests his voice with mock pathos. "When you adopted Rachel, I finally realized that I had to buckle up so I went to Mayfield. After I proved my commitment by staying clean for a year, you agreed to marry me." His fable is such a heady mix of truths, half-truths and outright falsehoods that it's difficult to find fault with it.

"But that still doesn't make you a model parent."

"Nothing will. But it makes **you **look like a saint instead of an easy lay."

He should have skipped the last half-sentence, of course. The animation that is lighting up Cuddy's face as she searches his story for loopholes fades at his final words, all emotions, even anger, draining out of her as though sucked out by dementors. Her eyes are dark in her pale face as she stares at him in shock. Within the bat of an eyelid, she drops her gaze onto her desk, biting her lips while her fingers fiddle with paper clips.

House shifts uneasily. He doesn't exactly feel guilty; after all, he's spoken nothing but the truth. She had quite a reputation in med school - he'd enquired about her after the first endocrinology class. Later her dates might have been fewer and further between, but she was neither particularly choosy (as far as he could make out) nor especially reticent about sharing her favours. Why she's choosing this particular comment to get riled about beats him. She knows he's a jerk, for goodness sake! If she means to get upset every time he gives his tongue free rein, they'll be history in no time. **This **is exactly why he and Cuddy will never work. If he threw a comment like that at Wilson, it would glide off him like water off a duck's back. Cuddy, on the other hand, soaks up off-beat remarks like that as nourishment for her various complexes. For a person of her elevated position she has an amazing lack of self-confidence.

Cuddy speaks slowly and softly, still not looking at him, "According to your logic, I'd have done best to have stayed with Lucas so as to demonstrate my ability to abide by a commitment."

There are things he can't lie about. "Yes."

"Too bad I didn't know I was heading for a custody battle when I left him, otherwise I'd have done the right thing and tricked him into a loveless marriage with a special-needs child as part of the package." If she means this to drip with sarcasm, then she's failing miserably. It only sounds pathetic.

"Right for **Rachel**. As for Lucas, you wouldn't need to trick him. He's pathetic enough to take you back in the knowledge that it's only for the kid's sake." It's a compliment - if one filters it enough to recognize the core message.

"Not even Lucas is sweet enough to take that," she says with cold emphasis.

Nice: trying to piss him off by calling Lucas 'sweet'. House's evil demon makes him push further. "He said so himself."

"He doesn't know Simon is challenging the adoption. I only found out myself the day I left for Seattle." Something in House's expression stops Cuddy short. "You told him!" she accuses.

House barely registers her words, let alone her expression. He is focused inward, processing the information he has just gleaned. "No, I didn't," he contradicts absently. "**He **told **me**. The question is," he stares into space, eyes narrowed, chin jutting out, "how did Lucas know?"

Cuddy, however, is off on a different tangent. "So **this **is what yesterday was about." House's attention snaps right back to Cuddy. She is mustering him with dawning comprehension, but her epiphany is not of the 'Joy to the world and goodwill to all mankind' type. Or, to stay within an Old Testament frame of reference, he is not cast as a cherishing Boaz spreading his mantle over Ruth. Judging by the murderous gleam in her eyes he is Haman, found guilty of plotting against her well-being and that of her race, and about to be strung high in the market place.

"You and Lucas had a talk from buddy to buddy and arranged a little trade-off, huh? He gets to keep me and you get to feel noble. How archaically romantic! But guess what? I'm not some Trojan war booty that you tough warrior types can divide among yourselves. I'm not a hooker you can pass back to her pimp once you're done with her."

That's his remark about her being an easy lay rebounding with a vengeance. He knows he should apologize for last night or at least explain what he was trying to do. No, he didn't feel noble at all - he felt like crap pushing her away and hurting her, which was probably why he didn't follow through the way he should have. He'd thought it would be easier for him considering that he'd successfully practised the same arts on Stacy, but he'd miscalculated heavily in his estimate of his own motivation: noble inclinations, as it turned out, were no adequate substitute for the righteous anger at Stacy's betrayal that had carried him through that episode of his existence.

Cuddy, however, doesn't give him the time or peace he needs to put something as complex as an apology into words. "Gregory House, you are one hell of a coward. This isn't about Rachel, or even about me; this is about **you**. You're worried that somewhere down the line I'll look at you and think, 'This is what I gave up my daughter for, this miserable wreck of a man!' And rather than exposing yourself to the danger of being a disappointment and a failure, you'd push me away now straight back into Lucas's arms if you could. Well, I'm sorry, but it isn't going to work!" She swallows convulsively. "I can live with a lot of things - that you don't respect me and that you think I'm a crappy mother. I'll get used to you discussing anything to do with us with your male buddies rather than having it out with me. But there's no way that I'll put up with you trying to run my life according to some wild scheme that you've concocted in that insane brain of yours!"

She's trembling all over as she pulls him off the chair by his arm and pushes him towards the door of her office. "Go!" she says with finality. One look at her white face, the eyes enormous and moist, the lines sharply etched, the lips thin and trembling, and he decides that there are about three dozen places in the hospital that he'd rather be than in Cuddy's office.

_Two hours later_

He's in his Eames chair, feet up on the ottoman, buds in his ears, reading a medical journal when something hits his chest with a thunk. His hands come up instinctively to catch it as his head jerks up - he's clutching this morning's blue folder while Cuddy is already on her way out of his office.

"Wait," he says, ripping the buds out of his ears. "You signed." It's an educated guess - she wouldn't bother coming up all the way to his office with the file if she hadn't. Naturally he never doubted that she'd sign and he's had no problems whatsoever shutting up the voice in his head that suggested that he escape from the hospital as soon as possible to get utterly wasted in the next bar. He takes off his glasses and puts them aside.

She turns with one hand on the door frame and sighs. "Your reasoning was solid. Marrying you improves my chances of keeping Rachel."

Somehow being told that he's right doesn't fill him with the accustomed satisfaction. "That's all?"

She takes a few steps back inside, mustering him with a slight frown. He isn't sure what he expects from her – after the things he threw at her in her office, a declaration of undying love and insurmountable passion probably isn't on the agenda. And yet he'd like some sort of confirmation that he's more than a short-cut to the finalization of her adoption plans.

His former strategy for situations in which he'd done something to get Cuddy's back up, namely doing nothing and waiting for his interactions with Cuddy to return to normal, won't do any more, not if Cuddy, her appendage and he are to enjoy a semblance of functional family life. Previously the worst that could happen was a yelling and extra clinic hours that he never absolved anyway. Ahead of him loom the clouds of meals eaten in silence and nights spent on a cold couch listening to the kid cry itself to sleep because it is scared silly that its parents will get divorced, unless he can figure out how to set things right when they go pear-shaped.

He has nothing to apologize for, he tells himself, and Cuddy doesn't expect an apology anyway. But what does she expect? A look at her face – she's tired, sad and drained - tells him that she doesn't have any expectations whatsoever. She just wants to get out of his office with minimal damage to her pride. He supposes he could at least make sure they're okay before he lets her leave.

"It wasn't lust for my steamin' hot bod that guided your hand?" he says with a suggestive leer, clasping both hands behind his head in a manner guaranteed to show off his well-defined biceps and broad shoulders to greatest advantage, a ploy which masks his real aim, namely to move his feet unobtrusively to one side of the ottoman. It works: with a shake of her head and a sigh, she instinctively sits down in the space vacated by House's feet. House closes his eyes briefly, letting his satisfaction at her proximity surface in the merest indication of a smile.

"You do know that those glasses are sexier than anything your physique has to offer."

"Huh?"

"Even the clinic nurses who hate your guts want to jump you when you wear those. They've taken to filling out the forms in tiny handwriting whenever you're on duty just to see you wear them."

"You're kidding me!" He always takes them off whenever anyone comes in because he thinks they make him look old. It isn't that he's vain - that's Wilson, not him - but there's something grandfather-ish about wearing reading glasses ...

"I'm so not! I know, because I suggested it to them when they complained that you don't wear them enough."

He's still mulling over the weirdness of female taste and the deviousness of the female mind when she asks seriously, "What are we doing, House?"

"It's just a piece of paper, Cuddy, stating what everyone will know sooner or later - that we're screwing each other. Wilson collects 'em; he'll be getting his fourth one soon." A thought strikes him. "Unless, of course, you weren't intending to do me any more after last night's fiasco."

Cuddy hears the real query behind that. "House, I do want to be with you," she defends herself, "but ..."

"But you wish you didn't. Yeah, I got that a week or so ago." He draws a tired hand over his eyes.

"House, it's complicated ..."

"I know. You've got the hospital, you've got the kid, and I'm a hazard to both instead of a help. This isn't the fairy-tale ending you've been dreaming of ever since you were a little girl. No matter how hard you chuck this frog against the wall, he isn't going to stop croaking and jerking you around."

She squeezes his knee gently. He gazes down at her hand. "There are other fairy tales," she says. "Take Shrek: he kisses his princess, only to discover that she's really an ogre."

"Like him." He's staring at her, mesmerized.

"Like him," she assents.

"And they live happily ever after?"

"We-ell ..."

"Does that mean I get laid tonight?"

She gives his leg a playful slap before she rises. "You're an ass."

"But you love me nonetheless," he calls after her as she sashays out.


	9. Day 12

**A/N: **And so we come to the end. A thank you again to everyone who put me on their alerts or reviewed or did both. A special thanks again to **Brighid45**, to whom I owe my deeper insights into Wilson (the real one, the manipulative one, the one who deserves to have fun poked at him as Malvolio for throwing his friend out of his condo, for making a guy with a gimp leg and pain issues sleep on a couch when he got back from rehab, for ... okay the list is pretty long, so we'll leave it at that) and who always tosses back an idea or two whenever I throw a hint at her.

_

* * *

Viola:  
__My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.  
__Olivia:  
__If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,  
__It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear  
__As howling after music.  
__Duke Orsino:  
__Still so cruel?  
__Olivia:  
__Still so constant, lord.  
__[Twelfth Night, Act 5 Scene 1]_

**May 28, 2010: Day 12**

(Ten days after the crane disaster in Trenton)

_3 pm_

Lucas walks up to the car parked at the curb and taps on the passenger window. Dr Nolan looks up from his journal, and then he leans sideways to open the door.

"Mr Douglas, I'm glad you could make it at such short notice."

"No problem," Lucas says, sliding into the passenger seat, "but why are we meeting in Princeton?" He's uneasy about this - it's a break in the pattern, so to say.

"I was in the area, so I thought I could kill a few birds with one stone. Do you have an hour or so for me?"

"Sure," Lucas says, shrugging, "though I honestly haven't got that much of a scoop for you. I gotta tell you that you're wasting your money. This case isn't worth the expenditure." That's the truth, for one thing. For another, he's come to the conclusion that he'd better get rid of this client before everything blows up in his face. The fracas with Simon Finchley on the PPTH parking lot convinced him that he's bitten off more than he can chew. Sooner or later someone (read: Lisa) is going to find out something that he'd rather not have her know if he doesn't manage to keep all the threads that he's weaving into his tapestry disentangled from each other.

"Not worth the cash I'm laying out or not worth the time you're investing?" Nolan enquires as he pulls away from the curb.

"Both," Lucas answers tersely. "Look, how you waste your money is none of my business ... where are we going?"

"I thought I'd visit the scene of the crime, make sure that Greg really is as fine as you say, meet some of the secondary characters and then hopefully close the case," Nolan says easily.

Lucas twists his head to look at Nolan. "You wanna go to PPTH? Yeah, well, you don't need me for that, I guess. You can just drop me off at the corner." He can't hide his unease at this turn of events, although he is very aware that Nolan is observing him as far as traffic will permit.

Nolan is remorseless. "Your presence would be helpful. Protocol dictates that as head of a similar institution I clear my impending visit with the dean. Patient confidentiality, however, forbids such a course of action. Furthermore, Dr House wouldn't appreciate it if I accosted him in front of colleagues and subordinates. I'd therefore prefer a meeting in the privacy of his office with no onlookers. All this means that I need someone familiar with the layout of the place to get me inside and to Dr House's office as discreetly as possible."

Lucas considers the pros and cons of agreeing to Nolan's request. If they meet House, Nolan will find out that he's been double-dealing. Unfortunately, this seems inevitable regardless of whether he accompanies Nolan or not; even if Nolan meets up with House by himself, there is no guarantee that House won't mention what Lucas has been up to. Correction: there is **every **likelihood that House won't lose a moment in filling Nolan in on Lucas's connection to PPTH. He's bound to lose Nolan as a client - okay, he's written him off anyway - and all outstanding payments to boot, but there's a slim chance that he'll be able to control the damage somehow.

All efforts must be bundled to shield Lisa from what has been going on in her absence. If he gets to her before House or his shrink do, he can sell the whole arrangement to her as an act of charity towards her poor friend House, who was falling apart so pitifully in her absence that anyone concerned for his well-being (and by extension for hers as his long-suffering boss) just had to step in and inform his therapist. Compassion with House will go down well with Lisa; she'll always have a soft spot for him. Though, if his source at the hospital can be believed, not soft enough to prevent another bout of yelling yesterday morning which apparently ended with Lisa throwing House bodily out of her office and snapping at everyone within sight the rest of the morning. Seems the day before House amused himself by drugging Wilson and then leaving his team alone with an undiagnosed patient, so that Lisa had to come in straight from Pittsburgh to set things aright. What a cretin! (House, not Lisa.)

All things considered, it isn't all that unlikely that although he, Lucas, has temporarily fallen from grace, he will be reinstated as soon as Lisa recovers from her menopausal mood swing and gets all the aggro out of her system, preferably venting it on House. This is presupposing that he's able to keep Nolan and Lisa apart today, a manageable feat seeing that Nolan is as keen to avoid Lisa as he is. What House tells Lisa, should he be foolish enough to mention the matter to her, is a matter of indifference. His version trumps House's any day, and if all else fails, he can put it down to stress-related paranoia on House's part.

"Yeah, okay," he says to Nolan, who is still waiting for an answer. "No problem. Let me check first whether he's there." He pulls his cell phone out and flicks through his contacts. "Jeffrey? It's Lucas. Is House at the hospital today?" He listens for a moment. "Oh, okay. Let me know when they get back."

He turns to Nolan. "House and L ... Dr Cuddy are at a court hearing. Some medical malpractice suit against House." **That **explains the yelling yesterday. "Dr Cuddy's assistant told my contact that she'll be back at 4 pm, so he'll be back then, too. That gives us time to get in without being spotted by Dr Cuddy. We can wait for House in his office."

"Works for me," Nolan says, pulling into the PPTH parking lot.

* * *

House's fellows look at the two men waiting in House's office with undisguised curiosity.

"Who's the big dude with Cuddy's PI?" Chase wonders aloud.

"I don't like it that he's here again," is Thirteen's opinion.

"House should know. Does anyone know where House is?" Foreman asks.

Taub looks up from the message he's texting. "I met him in the lobby just after lunch. He said he had a court hearing this afternoon."

"If he volunteered that information, then he was lying," Foreman says.

"He was wearing a suit, a tie and an ironed shirt."

"You're kidding!" Chase says. Everyone contemplates Taub's information.

"That guy could be a cop," Foreman suggests.

"Makes sense," Thirteen agrees. "That Lucas guy could have been snooping around and ratting on House to the cops just to make sure he has a monopoly on Cuddy."

Chase rises. "Then we definitely need to inform House. We don't want a replay of the Tritter affair, not if we can possibly avoid it."

"Tritter?" Taub asks.

"Don't even ask!"

Foreman takes charge. "Remy, Taub, you stay here and keep an eye on the PI and the big guy. We'll go down and catch hold of House in the lobby."

Down in the lobby, Foreman and Chase lounge casually against the lobby desk. "Do you think Cuddy knows what her lover-boy is up to?" Chase asks.

"No matter what House may have done, if her boy-toy has alerted the law and compromised the hospital, she'll have his balls for breakfast," Foreman opines with an air of satisfaction.

Chase squints through the clinic doors towards her office. "Maybe we should wise her up. ... The office is dark."

"Makes sense. She'll be at the hearing with House."

Chase frowns in sudden recognition. He nudges Foreman. "Isn't that the guy who attacked Lucas the other day? There, on the chair closest to Cuddy's office?"

Foreman turns to look. "Yeah. I thought I told him to keep away. I'll call security."

"No, wait!"

"What?"

"Lucas was relieved when we got rid of this kid for him. Perhaps we should find out why."

"Good point."

The blond boy is immersed in a motoring magazine. When Chase clears his throat the kid jumps, his eyes moving from Chase's and Foreman's legs up to the two faces looming over him.

"Didn't we tell you to stay away from here?" Foreman says coldly.

"It's ... I ... I want to talk to Dr Cuddy," the boy squeaks.

"About what?" Foreman asks.

"It's private."

"Then talk to us about it in the privacy of an examination room," Chase suggests.

"I'd rather wait for Dr Cuddy."

"Then **we'd** rather call security."

The lad looks at their implacable faces, gets up resignedly and follows them into Examination Room 3.

* * *

House enters his office jauntily, juggling cane and backpack with one hand while tearing off his tie with the other, but he stops short with his hand at his throat when he registers Nolan sitting in front of his desk and Lucas lounging in his Eames chair. He catches himself quickly, however, raising an eyebrow at Lucas as he makes for the comparative safety of the area behind his desk.

"What a surprise!" he says blandly, dropping the backpack and hooking the cane on a shelf. After sitting down he swings his feet provocatively onto his desk. "To what or whom do I owe the honour?"

"Hello Greg," Nolan says amiably. "I thought I'd drop in and see how you are doing."

"Peachy, as you can see, so don't let me keep you." He casts a quick glance at the conference room, but Taub is involved in an animated discussion with someone on his cell phone. the volume of his conversation drowning out whatever House and his guests discuss in his office.

Nolan turns to Lucas. "Mr Douglas, could you leave us alone for a moment?"

Lucas stands up with alacrity, but House waves a casual hand towards him. "He can stay. I doubt you'll say anything he doesn't know already." He sees no reason to pretend not to know Lucas, for although he has no idea what Lucas is playing at by coming here with Nolan, he feels that at this point it really doesn't matter any more. All these games, manipulations, moves and counter-moves - he's suddenly sick of them. "He blew his cover at the outset, so I know what he's up to. What I don't know is what** you're **up to. I'm pretty sure that setting a PI on former patients is not covered by any sort of psychiatric treatment plan."

Nolan frowns at Lucas, who shrugs unrepentantly. "I suck at stalking. People just seem to notice me," he explains.

Nolan turns back to House. "I want you back in therapy, Greg."

"I thought I made it clear that I'm not interested."

"You did, but continuing therapy was a pre-requisite for the board to re-issue your licence. Your employment here is dependent on your attending your therapy sessions."

House swings his feet down, his eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me?"

"No. I'm just trying to point out the consequences of your actions." House snorts. "Greg, you needn't come back to Mayfield, but you do need to find a therapist whom you trust and whom you'd be prepared to work with, otherwise ..."

"Otherwise what? You'll spill the beans to the board? How long exactly do I need to continue treatment? One year? Two years? Ten years? Till death do us part? Who gets to decide I'm cured - the doctor who profits from my ongoing treatment? Great!"

Nolan sighs. "Greg, it's a long process, I can't deny that. But are you trying to make me believe that you don't have issues, serious issues, any more? Alcohol?"

"It's under control," House says tersely, his eyes on his sneakers.

"Vicodin?"

House's eyes flash up. "I didn't take any!"

"Okay. Would you agree to a drug screen?"

Bile rises in him. He's conceded that alcohol might be a problem - Nolan is astute enough to recognize a veiled confession when he hears one - but he's been clean for a year and he's never lied to Nolan, not consciously. "No. The hospital screens me regularly."

"And if Dr Cuddy insisted?"

House remains silent, but he can't suppress a wry grin. Cuddy is the only person who knows for certain that he didn't take the vicodin, having flushed it down the toilet herself. She'll be the last person to insist on an extra screen, especially if the impetus leading to its demand comes from Lucas.

"Okay," Nolan says in a tone that screams 'change of topic'. "What about your job?"

"What about it?" He's puzzled.

Nolan picks his words carefully. "You lost a patient in Trenton."

"It ... happens."

"You also had a major altercation with Dr Cuddy at the site..."

"We've had disputes on a daily basis since then. We thrive on constructive discussions - isn't that what they call these things nowadays?" House says flippantly.

"To the point that the hospital staff doesn't consider your dismissal an unlikely event," Nolan continues undeterred.

House turns to Lucas. "Let me guess - your source is that hulk in the lobby."

"Chase has a pool going on how much longer you'll last. People betting on time spans of less than a month aren't getting very good odds," Lucas says dourly.

Now that **is **amusing. More amusing than the Cuddy-Lucas pool.

"Greg, you don't seem to care about the precariousness of your situation," Nolan chides gently. "I'm obliged to inform Dr Cuddy that you've discontinued therapy. Given the present tension between you, the bother you're causing ..."

"Bother?" Again, he's genuinely puzzled. He's been really good lately.

"The court hearing today. A malpractice suit, I'm told."

" ... Ah, that. A mere trifle," House waves it away.

Nolan is silent for a moment, pondering on how to deal with pre-pubescent House. "I think you'd do well to cooperate. You **like **this job. It would be a pity if you lost it because you were annoyed with me. Justifiably annoyed, I'd like to add."

"Was that an apology? Oh, dandy!" House blows up his cheeks and lets the air out in little pops, considering whether aggravating Nolan any further makes any sense. "Suppose you have a patient and you take a blood sample." Nolan looks puzzled. "You send it to the lab and it comes back positive for everything from anaemia to zoster, do you grab the patient and pump him full of meds? No, you pounce on the lab technician who is plotting to kill the patient because he's thrown an eye on the patient's wife."

While Nolan looks confused at the metaphor, Lucas reacts instantly, strolling towards House's desk with barely masked aggression. "Nice metaphor, House, but she isn't your **anything**."

"Wait," Nolan says, "what's this? Mr Douglas ... **Lucas **Douglas. You're Dr Cuddy's Lucas? Oh no!"

"Yeah," Lucas says. "Should've mentioned it, I guess."

Disbelief, disgust and dismay chase across Nolan's face. "You didn't consider this a breach of confidence? The conflict of interests didn't bother you?"

"You mean, like breaking the Hippocratic oath or violating patient confidentiality? Nah, I'm just a common sleuth, we don't have highbrow stuff like codes of conduct." Nolan looks anything but placated. "Hey, He's the guy who paid me to snoop around his best friend and his employees. He kinda had it coming!"

"Mr Douglas, this throws doubts on the reliability of your information. Besides, has it occurred to you that observing one of Dr Cuddy's employees for a third party might put a strain on your relationship? Dr House is under no obligation to keep this from Dr Cuddy."

"Oh, not to worry," House says airily. "Their involvement is history. Ask him," he adds as Nolan musters him doubtfully.

"I may be on the bench at the moment, but that doesn't mean that you'll be allowed out on the field. Lisa is on the verge of losing her child to a juristic formality and she's under fire from the board. She isn't going to jeopardize kid or job for the sake of a miserable junkie who hates the kid and jerks her around at work!" Lucas is practically spitting with anger.

"Touché. But marrying a top-notch diagnostician who can ..."

"Marrying? Are you dreaming, House? She's been yelling non-stop at you since Trenton - there's no way she'll touch you with a ten-foot pole, let alone marry you."

"Hate to wake you from your sweet dreams, but she's done so already. One hour ago, to be exact." It wasn't his intention to shoot his mouth off before Cuddy has had time to inform the board, but Lucas's condescension gets to him in a way he hadn't anticipated. Lucas's reaction admittedly isn't quite what he envisages (or has fantasized about, to be honest, ever since it struck him that Lucas would have to be informed and that he might be the lucky one to do it). Instead of going for House's throat, as House more than half expects, Lucas freezes where he is, giving Nolan a helpless, dismayed look.

"Look," he stammers, "I'm sorry ... I should've ...There was no sign of any more vicodin ... If I'd thought he was losing it, I would have contacted you."

Nolan stands up slowly. "Greg, do you have any proof of what you just said?"

"Cuddy's got the paperwork." Nolan looks pointedly at his left hand. "We didn't have time to get rings."

"I see," Nolan says, his expression grave. He turns towards Lucas. "Will you please ask Dr Cuddy to come here? Discreetly!"

Lucas draws a shaking hand through his hair. "I ... jeez ... sure. God, I'm sorry, House." Is that compassion in the schmuck's gaze?

"I am not **hallucinating**!" House yells. Thirteen looks over from the conference room.

"Go, please," Nolan nods to Lucas, who takes off. "Greg, three weeks ago you were in my office telling me that Dr Cuddy and her boyfriend were moving in together. Today you insist that you and Dr Cuddy are married. How likely does that sound..."

He trails off at the rumpus out on the corridor. A wildly gesticulating Taub is blocking Lucas's way, mirroring his movements as the PI tries to sidestep him to get to the elevator. Ignoring Nolan, House steps out into the corridor and wolf-whistles loudly.

"What's up?" he asks as soon as he has their attention.

"The little snitch has been spying on me for Cuddy," Taub rants, his habitual phlegm giving way to an eruption of epic proportions.

"I didn't ..," Lucas begins, but Taub cuts him off.

"Oh, yes, you did! Because Cuddy told my wife that I'm cheating on her, and how else would she know, huh?" And Taub jumps at Lucas, seizing him by the shirt and slamming him against the wall.

"Damn!" House hobbles forward, but before he can reach the pair, Lucas takes a swing at Taub, who topples backwards holding his nose. When House reaches him, he pulls Taub's hand off to inspect the damage. Then he turns to Lucas.

"I have no idea what he's talking about," Lucas says. holding up both hands defensively.

Thirteen, who came out of the conference room when Lucas hit Taub, now puts a supportive arm around Taub. "What happened?" she asks.

"Wachel phoned," Taub says indistinctly.

"Into the conference room, **all **of you!" House orders. "You," he points at Lucas, "don't go anywhere until all this is cleared up. Thirteen, see to Taub's nose. Where the hell are Foreman and Chase?"

"You didn't see them when you came in?" Thirteen asks.

"Obviously not!" House barks. "Taub, nose, ice!" He holds open the door to the conference room and shoos Thirteen, Taub and Lucas in. Then he takes a deep breath; Taub's marital problems are extremely inconvenient to put it mildly, because what he really needs to do is get rid of Nolan, take Lucas down a notch and explain to Cuddy why the whole hospital is going to be trooping by to felicitate her when she'd expressly asked him to lie low until after the next board meeting. If he dared leave Lucas and Taub here, he'd take Nolan to Cuddy to confirm his story and then get rid of him, but he supposes he'll have to find out first what Taub is on about.

He's spared dealing with the logistics of the chaos that Lucas has caused in his department by the arrival of the elevator whose doors open to reveal Cuddy. He observes her with his head tipped slightly as she marches towards him, enjoying the sway of her hips even as he registers the tenseness of her expression. Is that a trace of guilt in her face?

"House, I messed up."

"I know - I was there. You said, 'Yes, I do'."

She rolls her eyes. "Be serious for a moment. Taub's wife phoned to whine at me because of his 'long working hours' and I was indiscreet:"

"Ah, that would explain it, I suppose." House nods at Taub sitting at the conference table holding an ice-pack to his nose.

"Oh goodness, she was quick! I only just finished talking to her!"

"It wasn't Rachel Taub, it was your boy-toy."

Cuddy only now spots Lucas sitting in a corner of the room cradling his hand. "Oh, no! What's **he **doing here?"

"Long story. What did you say to Rachel?"

Cuddy gawps unhappily at Lucas while processing House's question. "She went on about how Taub has to work till midnight every day, so finally I lost my temper and told her that yesterday for instance Taub left the hospital well before midnight in the company of, ummm, one of our nurses. Why the hell was she ranting at me instead of you, anyway?"

"She likes me," House says, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he musters Taub.

"Can you fix it?" Cuddy asks hopefully.

"What makes you think I want to fix it?" House retorts, frowning down at her.

"You've been covering for him - she said something about both of you doing pottery classes together - ..."

"Ceramics," House corrects absently.

"... which you'd hardly have told her to enable his adultery, so you must have cooked up that story to protect her."

"Why shouldn't I have been enabling Taub?"

"You jerk people around, but you don't enable them," Cuddy says confidently.

Her confidence in his ability to fix things is heart-warming, but ... "Cuddy, there's no way I can fix this. But don't get your panties all in a twist - this isn't your fault."

"Not my fault when I blabbed my mouth off?" She gives him an incredulous frown.

"Your capacity for guilt is infinite, but no. I'd say he is to blame for cheating on Rachel unless you were the person Taub took off with yesterday. **Then** it would be a matter for debate, for who could resist those fun-bags?"

He leers at her while she rolls her eyes in exasperation, but she's smiling faintly. He's satisfied at having assuaged her guilt a little. When Nolan clears his throat behind them, House, who has forgotten about him, turns around startled. "Ah, Cuddy, this is my ex-shrink, Dr Nolan. Dr Nolan, Dr Cuddy."

"Dr Nolan!" Cuddy extends a hand. "Pleased to meet you." She pauses uncertainly. "Is there a problem? Hang on," she says, turning to House. "**Ex**-shrink?"

"You have an ex-fiancé, I have an ex-shrink. Equal rights, you know."

"Perhaps we could move into Greg's office," Nolan suggests. "Dr Cuddy, Greg has chosen to discontinue out-patient treatment at Mayfield," Nolan continues once they are in the relative privacy of House's office, with Cuddy seated in House's chair and House leaning against the wall. Nolan takes his previous seat opposite Cuddy. "While we were discussing alternatives," House harrumphs and Nolan ignores him, "Greg happened to mention that he and you were married. Could you confirm that, please?"

Cuddy favours House with the sort of glare that nails lesser mortals to the wall behind them. House fidgets slightly and decides that his sneakers deserve a thorough visual going-over. It's odd, but it was a lot easier to stand on the gallery and shout out to the whole hospital that he'd done Cuddy (even if he hadn't, but he hadn't known that) than admitting to matrimony. Sex is cool, being chained down isn't, he figures. He's uncomfortably aware that now that Taub's face is wrapped in an icepack instead of stuck to his phone, the people congregated in the conference room can listen in on the louder parts of their conversation.

"I see," says Nolan into the silence. "I'm afraid he wasn't trying to embarrass you. He genuinely believes ..." He breaks off at both their stares, but then plods on determinedly. "A drug screen should be done so that I can see what we're dealing with. Meanwhile I'll organize a room in Mayfield for the detox, if Greg is willing. I hope you're okay with that, Dr Cuddy."

"Yes ... I mean ...no!" Cuddy says, dazed.

"Cuddy, could you say something sensible please, before I'm carted away in a straight-jacket and Lucas does a victory dance on my conference table?" House presses out from between clenched teeth.

Lucas is indeed grinning like the Cheshire Cat, all compassion for House having been blown away at the intimacy of the interaction he witnessed between House and Cuddy earlier on. Taub and Thirteen are trying their best to look as though they can't hear a word of what is going on in House's office, but are failing miserably.

Cuddy stands up. "House and I are married," she states clearly, looking Nolan in the eye. She then strides past House into the conference room. "If any of this leaves this room, I'll fire you!"

"I don't think you can," House says just to be contrary. "Technically, only I can fire them."

"Ahem, I don't think we'll test that," Taub says.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy says to Lucas.

"'I'm sorry!'" House mimics, grimacing.

"Shut up, House! He shouldn't have found out like this."

House considers pointing out that he didn't fare much better a few months earlier, but decides to let it go when Thirteen gives him a brisk hug, saying, "I'm really, really happy for you." It happens so quickly that he has no time to wisecrack. Taub follows, proffering his hand. "Felicitations," he says indistinctly..

"What, even though my wife just tattled to your wife?"

"How the hell did Cuddy find out?" Taub asks furtively.

"The Evil One's eye is everywhere," House intones. He glances over at Cuddy, who is sitting next to Lucas, talking earnestly to him. Lucas is shocked into silence for once; he looks confused, like a child abandoned in a mall in the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping. He's wondering whether to disturb their tête-a-tête when Foreman and Chase appear in the corridor waving to him.

House pokes his head out. "What's up?"

"We've got someone for you," Chase says, nodding towards the boy they are flanking.

"Patient? Where's the file? Doesn't look interesting." The boy looks healthy enough, though perhaps a trifle pale. There aren't any interesting fluids spouting out of his orifices, nor does he show signs of seizing or other unusual activities. "What's his problem?"

"He says he's the father of Cuddy's kid."

"Ah," House says with a quick glance into the conference room where Cuddy is still dealing with a distraught Lucas. His inclination is to magic Simon away to some remote corner of the hospital, the morgue for instance, and instil the fear of the Lord in the lad.

Foreman seems to divine his intentions. "Dr Cuddy might be interested in hearing what he has to tell about her boy-friend."

Ah, yes, Foreman isn't in the picture as yet, but what he says corresponds to a suspicion that House has been nourishing.

"In we go then," House says with false cheer, pulling open the door to the conference room. "Sorry, Dr Nolan, but it's a busy day, as you can see. So, Steven, ..."

"Simon," the boy mutters glancing at Cuddy and then, with astonishment, at Lucas.

"Steven, Simon, whatever. What brings you here?"

When Simon remains silent Foreman says, "He's got an interesting story. He says he got a phone call about a week ago from someone who advised him that if he didn't want to forfeit all rights as a father, he should challenge the adoption."

Simon rakes his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. Before that I didn't even know I could do anything about it. No one told me that I have can have rights even though Natalie never named me officially as the father. My parents ... they wanted to protect me I guess. They don't want me to be burdened with a child at my age. They say it wasn't my fault."

"No," House says with heavy sarcasm, "it wasn't your dick up her ..."

"House, hush," Cuddy admonishes. Returning her attention to Simon she asks,"You were put up to this?" He nods.

"Greg?" Nolan asks sternly.

House wonders how he ever trusted the man. "Does that sound like me?" he asks with a faux-innocent expression.

"It does," Cuddy says briskly. "You'd do it without any compunction if it promised the slightest benefit to one of your schemes." Something clamps itself around House's heart and gives it a nasty squeeze.

"Uh, Dr Cuddy," Chase interrupts, "it wasn't House."

"I know."

The something around his heart relaxes slightly. "Thank you," House says, keeping his voice neutral with an effort.

Cuddy, however, isn't paying much attention to him anyway. She hones in on Lucas, all compassion for him wiped off her face. "You bastard! Was this your revenge on me for breaking up with you?"

Lucas puts up his hands as though to placate her. "No, no! Look, you've got it all wrong. You've misunderstood the situation."

"I have? Why would you want me to lose my daughter if not to get back at me?"

"You weren't meant to ... he wasn't supposed to sue for custody. I never told him he should do that!"

"No, my lawyer figured that one out - once I got myself a lawyer," Simon confirms.

"And what **was **he supposed to do?" House probes.

"I thought that if he contested the adoption, Lisa would realize that she needs me, y'know, just in case. But there would have been no harm done."

"No harm done?" Cuddy's voice rises a dangerous octave.

"You'd still be the foster mom, just like now. No change there. I mean, who cares about a piece of paper - she'd still be your daughter even if he's officially the father. So long as you have custody of Rachel, who cares?" He looks around at the faces looming around him. "Hell, how was I supposed to know he'd apply for custody too? Seriously, what eighteen-year-old wants a kid?"

"The kid's father, maybe," Taub says to no one in particular. Everyone else is staring at Lucas with varying degrees of disbelief and disgust.

Nolan is the first to find his tongue. "Mr Douglas, do you mean to say that you informed the father of Dr Cuddy's child of the possibility of contesting the impending adoption in the hope that the ensuing legal action would persuade Dr Cuddy to resume her relationship with you? You did this knowing that if it came to a custody battle this might well cost Dr Cuddy her child?"

When he puts it this way, it sounds odd indeed.

"You didn't stop to consider that this would affect any sort of rapport that you might manage to establish with Dr Cuddy?"

It sounds more than odd; it's downright stupid. Yet if loving Cuddy has turned his brain into slush, can one blame Lucas for it? She has much the same effect on him. House notices Cuddy stirring out of the corner of his eye.

"Nolan, take Lucas and your impromptu therapy session somewhere else. Cuddy turns into a veritable she-wolf when her man-child is threatened." He pulls Lucas up unceremoniously and shoves him towards the door.

"We still need to talk, Greg," Nolan objects.

"Not today. Look, you brought this joker here - you get him out of here, preferably before Cuddy wakes from her catatonic state."

He watches them leave before he turns back to the others. "I'm glad we're rid of them," he says conversationally. "In a moment Nolan would have been asking really stupid questions, like, 'How do you feel about the situation?' or 'Do you think this worked for you?'" As he speaks he moves casually over to Cuddy and places his hands on her shoulder, unobtrusively using his thumbs to knead the muscles running along the base of her neck. He continues until he feels her relax gradually and lean into his touch.

Simon shifts uneasily in his corner.

"You," House says, "can sue for custody. We won't stop you. Dr Cuddy is dean of a renowned hospital. I am head of Diagnostics. Did I mention that we're married? We are medically qualified and financially equipped to deal with - what's the pc term for retards? - oh, a challenged child, right?"

Cuddy stiffens. "There's no sign that she's mentally ..."

"Relax!" He fixes Simon with a glare. "**You, **on the other hand, are ignorant of basic health concepts such as contraception or safer sex, while your favoured method of consolidating your finances is selling booze and drugs to minors. Contest the adoption for all I care." Cuddy gives a gasp of protest, so he tightens his grip on her shoulder. "A child has a right to know who its father is and that he cares ... even if he does so in a screwed-up way. But before you apply for custody, take a moment to consider whether a private agreement between Dr Cuddy and you regarding visiting rights wouldn't be more generous to you than what a judge will award you once he hears about your past track record." He leans forward and gives Simon a conspiratorial wink. "She's a real soft touch," he says in a stage whisper.

Simon is visibly intimidated. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, scram! Taub, see him out." As an afterthought he adds, "You can have the rest of the day off."

Once Simon is out of earshot, Cuddy turns on House. "She's **not **a retard!"

"Who cares? Do you want him scared off or not? Good." He scratches his chin thoughtfully, looking around at his remaining fellows. Foreman and Chase are looking gob-smacked, while Thirteen smiles knowingly. "Let's give the children a chance to gossip while we pay a visit to HR, shall we?"

"HR - oh dear!" Cuddy says. "You couldn't keep your big trap shut, could you?"

House propels her to the door. "We'd need to go there irrespective of my propensity to spread the gospel. I'm sure there's some hospital directive or other specifying that one needs to inform them of changes in one's family status within a certain time span. Wilson would know - he's done it often enough," he adds meditatively as they pass his office.

"Wilson," she says as they wait in front of the elevator. "Does **he **know yet?"

House's reply is submerged in Cuddy's stifled shriek as he gropes her rear.

* * *

When House returns from HR, Wilson is consulting with a patient. House briefly considers barging in on him, but he discards the notion as quickly as the one of waiting in his own office until Wilson can't contain his curiosity any more. So he goes out onto his balcony, chucks a few stones at Wilson's balcony door to indicate his willingness to talk and then leans on the parapet to wait for his friend.

Wilson lets him wait for fifteen minutes, which means that someone from the team (House thinks that it was probably Thirteen) has informed Wilson of the revelations of the past hour. When Wilson finally comes outside, he's exuding a mixture of hurt, concern and worry. He reminds House of parents who bring their teen kids to the hospital mouthing platitudes such as, 'We don't control our child. We have full confidence in his ability to make the right decisions,' and are then completely gob-smacked when it turns out that their kid is drinking, taking drugs and having unprotected sex. What the hell did Wilson expect when he threw him out of his condo: that he'd check every personal decision with him, ask his permission to date? In righteous irritation he flicks a tissue wad at the gardener fertilizing the lawn below.

Wilson leans on the parapet on his side of the balcony and they both watch the missile's arc through the air down three floors until it hits the lawn yards away from its target. House grimaces.

"You heard," he says.

"Your little ones bounced into my office asking what daddy's been up to..."

"Hmmmm."

"... a question I couldn't answer because I know less than nothing about it."

"Gosh darn it, Wilson, you've done it three times; surely you can explain the basic procedure to my minions! Get a licence, say 'yes' in front of a judge and the dire deed is done."

"House!" Wilson shakes his head in exasperation. "This is radical, even by your standards."

"**You **were always at me to hit on Cuddy, to get involved in a 'serious relationship'." He paints quotation marks in the air.

"Yes, but matrimony! How long have you been dating Cuddy?"

'Dating' probably isn't the right word, but House doesn't exactly want to share the details of the past days with Wilson. "Ten days, give or take."

"And she was gone for five of those," Wilson sums up. "You don't think that's jumping the gun?"

"You've been known to marry women you'd dated for less than three months," House grumbles.

"Ten days isn't three months."

"Christ, Wilson, I've known Cuddy for over twenty years. She's not a whisky, mellowing with every additional year. It's all downhill from here: crow's feet, sagging boobs, cellulitis ..." He gives a mock shudder. "Definitely a need for haste."

"You're deflecting."

"It's no big deal," House mutters.

"It's a lifetime commitment!"

House refrains from pointing out that Wilson has currently run up three of those 'once-in-a-lifetime' commitments.

"If you're so casual about it," Wilson continues, "how come you didn't marry Stacy? Judging by how quickly she married Mark, she wouldn't have been unwilling."

House shrugs. "There was no need. If there had been, I'd have made an honest woman of her."

"The story your team told me - something about custody for Rachel - explains why Cuddy needs to marry, but not why you would agree to do so."

"You think I'm too self-serving to do something that benefits Cuddy mostly."

"I think you are too self-serving to do something that doesn't benefit **you **at all. You've always resented Rachel, you don't like sharing Cuddy and you don't want to be father."

"You assume that, based on my personal preferences, I'd embark on a course of action designed to cause maximum misery all round?"

"No, that's not what I ... I didn't ... oh, forget it!"

"My shrink says I should formulate positively: I like Cuddy's bod, I like getting laid, and I'd like to get laid even after the court hearing on Rachel's adoption. So I've tried to ensure that nothing gets in the way of Cuddy being happy enough to jump me regularly and enthusiastically."

"Your methods are a bit drastic and, frankly, unnecessary. Chase says the biological father isn't too enthused at the idea of raising a special-needs kid and that it took you three minutes to reduce him to a gibbering mess."

"Could be," House says non-committally. "Cuddy was on a guilt trip - saw herself as the wicked stepmother taking the child away from its rightful father - so it escaped her notice that she's dealing with an irresponsible bastard who mobbed the girl he was screwing and ignored his kid for eighteen months. That's not even mentioning the booze and drug racket he had going at his high school. Then again, being with Lucas might have clouded Cuddy's view of what one can reasonably expect from guys."

"And you didn't see fit to set her right about the boy before you tied the knot? ... You know what I think?"

House doesn't want to know, but he supposes he'll have to grin and bear it.

"I think you want to tie Cuddy down, make sure she doesn't leave you the way Stacy did, the way she left Lucas. You have an issue with abandonment."

"Your logic is faulty. My relationship with Stacy, although not graced with a ring, lasted a darn sight longer than any of your marriages. It follows that the best way to sabotage a relationship is to get married."

"Fine. You're not tying her down with a piece of paper - you're binding her with the chain of gratitude. Now she's obliged to you, so she can't up and leave you."

House taps the balustrade rhythmically. "What **should **I have done, in your opinion?"

"What **normal **people do: date her for some time, move in with her, see how things go, especially with you and Rachel, and then ..."

"Hmmm. And what happens if it doesn't work?"

"Huh? I thought you're so convinced it will work that ..."

"**I **thought we're talking our way through an alternate scenario because you're convinced it** won't **work. So tell me what happens then!"

"Well," Wilson says in measured tones, "much the same as when you're married and it doesn't work, but with a lot less hassle and unpleasantness. No alimony either, but since she'd be paying you, I guess that argument doesn't apply."

"I move back into my apartment?"

"Yeah."

"She nags me about clinic hours and I make crude comments about her ass."

"Well, yes."

"This utopian vision can only come from a guy who takes his ex-wives out to dinner on their divorce anniversary. Weren't you bridesmaid when Bonnie married that insurance fellow last fall?" House scoffs.

"No ... I ... she doesn't have any male relatives so I gave her away. _In loco parentis_, you know," Wilson says unhappily.

"Father of the bride. That's perverted, somehow," House muses.

"Stop skirting the issue. What are you getting at, House?"

"Cuddy and I have been flirting for years. Have you never wondered why we didn't just do the nasty and then waited to see where it would go?"

"I **have **been wondering for years! In case you didn't notice, I've been **asking **you for years, but you never deigned to give me a coherent reply."

"I don't do nice. I don't do nice split-ups, with or without divorce thrown into the mix. When ... if Cuddy and I break up, it'll be the kind of nuclear cataclysm that starts off at sub-atomic level, but ends up laying waste to entire continents." He rubs his thumb over his eyebrows and sighs. He doesn't want to go into all this, sketching scenarios that are best left in the depths of his subconscious where all they can do is worry him regularly in the form of nightmares. But Wilson is unbelievably naive about relationships. "If we'd got together and then split up, I would have behaved in a manner that would have left Cuddy with little choice but to fire me. Given my reputation and my well-known addiction, I'd never have landed another job. I knew it, Cuddy knew it, so we both let well alone."

"So what's changed?"

"I have. I've been clean for a year, lawsuits are down. If I had to get a new job, I could."

"So ... that's good. But it doesn't explain the shotgun wedding."

"Oh, you're too sharp for me - nothing escapes your razor-like powers of observation." House waggles a finger at Wilson. Then he's serious again. "Cuddy's situation has changed, too. If I go, she stands to lose her job."

"What? The board would be **glad **to be rid of you!"

"Don't kid yourself. Cuddy's spent years selling me as an asset to the board until they actually believed her fairy tale. Now that I'm halfway presentable, they'd be pretty pissed off if the dean had to fire a department head because their screwing got out of hand. Her rep has suffered over that Atlantic Net deal ..."

"She got what she wanted."

"She gambled, and the board knew it. They don't like gambling, no matter how successful. They don't care whether we get eight percent or twelve percent because they don't have to explain salary cuts to irate staff or turn away patients because we have to cut down on beds. Plus, donations are down by thirty percent."

Wilson looks surprised. House shrugs. "That's what happens when the dean runs home at six to coddle her cabbage-patch kid instead of flashing her boobs at donors over dinner. Unlike me, Cuddy will find it difficult to land a new job."

"Oh, come along, she's good!"

"How many hospitals need new deans? And how many of those take deans with a medical degree instead of a management degree? As for practising medicine, she hasn't been a real doctor in years - she'd have to start from scratch, her reputation in shreds, her income decimated, everything she's achieved washed down the drain."

"Wait, so you're agreeable to a relationship now, because it would ruin **her **instead of you, and to compensate for your egotism you're putting a ring on her finger."

"I love how you manage to verbalize my virtues," House quips.

"I'm not buying this," Wilson says abruptly. "Cuddy isn't a romantic teen who can be duped with a ring."

"Oh, don't be a moron. I'm not duping her. I'm trying to make the situation more acceptable. If it were just for the kid and that damn chromosome donor of hers, I wouldn't have bothered, but matrimony certainly won't harm Cuddy's case in court. Here in the hospital, however, Cuddy's situation will become pretty untenable when people find out that the dean is doing her diagnostician, which they will once her private life is spread out in a court hearing. It sounds much better to say that she's fulfilling her marital duties. Unfortunately, Cuddy is much too proud to legalize me just to save her own skin."

"So ... you pushed a bit."

House considers the gardener below him. The tissue wad would need to be heavier to have enough impetus to cover the horizontal distance between them - a few small stones, perhaps ... He can feel Wilson's eyes on him, dissecting him as he picks up a few stones to weigh down the next tissue.

"You ...euwww, House what are you doing?"

"Chewing on the tissue. How else'm I supposed to make a decent wad out of it?" House says indistinctly.

"Do you think that bugging the rest of Cuddy's staff is conducive to getting laid today?"

House waves Wilson's objections aside. "Minor ripples that barely disturb the surface of the deep pool that she inhabits."

"If you don't watch out she'll shoot out her tentacles and pull you into the deep."

House considers this metaphor. He'd rather like to be entwined in Cuddy's coils and be pulled down into her lair where she'd have her wicked way with him. He smiles faintly at the direction his thoughts are taking.

"It's really hit you badly, hasn't it?" Wilson says. "Love," he clarifies, just in case House doesn't get his meaning.

The way Wilson says it makes it sound like a Good Thing. A bit goofy, but good.

Wilson is an idiot.

Love is never a good thing. It isn't any of the stuff Wilson thinks of when he takes the word in his mouth: regular sex, someone to come home to in the evenings, someone to talk to and share confidences with. Those can be perks, but they have nothing to do with the underlying emotion.

Love is not letting your mother know what her husband is doing to you in her absence, because destroying the illusion that she's built around her life would hurt her more than the guy you used to call father can hurt you.

Love is sending the woman you want back to her husband, because you know you'll never trust her or open up to her again the way she deserves, the way her husband is prepared to do.

Love is accepting that your friend carries out his neediness issues at your expense, turning his back on you whenever he needs affirmation from some third party that he's supportive, caring and sweet.

Love is protecting the kid you've unfortunately got yourself involved with via its mother from the neighbourhood bully, knowing all the while that each time you instil the fear of God in one pesky brat, there'll be ten others waiting in line to terrorize your kid the moment your back is turned.

"Gotta go," Wilson says. "My next patient's waiting. Try shooting the wad with a rubber band," he suggests as he leaves. He'd do well as head of a terror organisation, sending out suicide bombers, but never getting into the line of fire himself.

Love is pretending that you believe that cooked up story about your team drugging your friend, not even hinting at what you found when you hacked your friend's browser history this morning while he was doing his rounds, because if he knew that you know it would be the end of your friendship. You'll have to practice severe self-restraint, behaving as though nothing has changed. ...

Love is exacting dire retribution on your fellows for humiliating your friend so bitterly.

On that cheering thought House accurately fires the tissue lump at the gardener's head and disappears back into into his office to plan his revenge.

The End


End file.
